


Fragrant Lotus, Willful Waters

by sweetaugustblue



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Feminist Themes, LGBTQ Themes, Minor Original Character(s), Original Character(s), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-05-07 12:12:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19209199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetaugustblue/pseuds/sweetaugustblue
Summary: After returning to Xing, Ling claims the throne as rightfully his and begins working at undoing the impossible knots and stuffy walls of tradition, and encouraging those in Xing to find common ground—whether it be between class, race, sex, or otherwise. Certainly the Emperor and his Shadow must be an example of this.As Lan Fan is caught in the midst of politics and court affairs and falls right into the hands (and heart) of the Emperor of Xing himself, she must choose between duty, desire, and what most certainly feels like damnation amongst the rising threat of forces that wish to annihilate the Emperor and his will.There is a fine line between want and need, and surely they must both understand that what they both want and need is not always what they are allowed to have—though who is Lan Fan to deny what her master requires? Perhaps the homunculus Greed still exists somewhere inside Ling Yao, and Lan Fan simply has to coax it forward—and deal with it accordingly. Or, maybe, Ling Yao is simply what Mei Chang says he is: just too greedy.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> i've been wanting to write a long fanfic for quite a long time now... i think about two years now actually, haha. there are about three earlier scrapped versions of FLWW that were all just really long one-shots but nothing fit it quite right; there was just more and more that i kept adding and it got so messy. well anyway, i've started it now that i'm in the right place mentally and emotionally to do it! yay for motivation! i've never written long fanfics like this so please, PLEASE be gentle ;w; i'm working very diligently and actually doing research for this, i can't believe it. also, there are hints at bisexual lan fan, but this fic is largely lingfan centric. do know though that there will definitely be original F/F characters and possibly some M/M content as well. only smut for lingfan though. also this is tagged slow burn and i'm trying my damn hardest to make it slow burn but that is so impossible with these two so bear with me while i struggle with this.
> 
> you might know me from tumblr as @ locallovewitch, i posted a lot of one-shots there before tumblr absolutely fcked over creator content, so now i'm posting here. i was also on ffnet at one point lolol my old one-shots are still there as well. i'll have to move them here periodically.
> 
> okay so. here's the dealio. this fanfic is largely inspired by some other lingfan-centric fics in this fandom—so i'm giving headcanon credits to swallows on the beam (a Classique by shuofthewind), after all the misery (a super great fic by luna arcana authoress), and the interplay of duty and desire (awesome fic with light bdsm-ish themes and smut by liara_90). creds to them for being awesome fcking writers because they've all inspired me during this process.
> 
> also i'm a music major so i rely quite a bit on thematic music when i'm writing; here's the link to the music i'm listening to while writing. https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLjYxCbfu_66zBvDkU6ABoPbbjW7nvQR1D (hopefully ao3 doesn't hurt the link when i post)
> 
> this chapter is Teba's Theme (BotW) up to Eros (If Beale Street Could Talk).
> 
> lastly, i never actually intended FLWW to get this long, so i really and truly hope you enjoy. here's a list of characters that appear in this chapter.
> 
> Ling Yao - Our favorite prince. So strong, so sweet. So weak for his bodyguard.  
> Lan Fan - The kickass bodyguard of said favorite prince.  
> Mei Chang (and Xiao Mei) - The fiery Princess Chang. Will play matchmaker but is not happy to do so.  
> Bao Chang - Mei Chang's scholar. Has a thing for strong and intelligent women. Same age as Ling/Lan Fan.

The first breath of air in Xing, Ling notes, is a relief.

Not quite the _first_ real breath after they’d crossed into western plain territories, cloaked and still hiding their identities. (Lan Fan had insisted to do so; she’d expressed that the plains were dangerous territory, full of bands of thieves and such, and the Princess Chang also noted that having Ling’s identity found out would prove problematic to the last fraction of their mission.) No, it was the first breath of safety, of knowing they were home in Xing, not hiding within Amestrian slums and certainly not crossing the impossibly hot and dry Desert Area.

The air, Ling notes, is particularly different in Xing—there’s the faint thrum of _qi_ below him, around him, that denotes the existence of so many living things that aren’t _disturbed_ ; everything flows naturally, so unlike the swarms of tormented souls underneath Amestris. The cool of night time and late spring are fresh, damp on his shoulders in a sheen of sweat. With a careful look around he removes his hood, stretching his _qi_ outwards in a blanket. He feels Lan Fan and Mei Chang next to him—Lan Fan responds with what feels like a tickle of “hello” to his outstretched _qi_ without a glance at him. Xiao Mei stretches her neck but her tiny trickle of _qi_ still senses him. Mei Chang practically swats at him with hers and she gives him a sideways smile that he catches immediately. Ling returns it in favor, lowering his gaze when she looks forward to the road ahead. Lan Fan leads ahead on her horse; Ling trusts her _qi_ senses more than his own, and thus deemed her fit to lead their little troupe.

Eventually Lan Fan signals for them to stop, as the sky begins to bellow and its hues take on a deeper blue.

Twilight brings an eerie feel to the outward expanse of the field they travel on.

“Young Lord.” Lan Fan finally says, dismounting and surveying the area. Her automail flashes a deep silver in the lowlight, catching Ling’s eye for a moment. She continues after a beat. “Chang country is not far off—about another twenty-five kilometers from here. Shall we make camp?”

There’s bags under her eyes, Ling notices. Her gaze is all stone and steel.

Mei Chang glances between the two of them, a pensive look scrunching her nose up. She brushes a few of her braids off her shoulders.

“There’s a better chance for us to sense or see someone coming if we stay out in the fields at the peak of the hill here,” Ling says, his hand coming up to rub his chin in thought. “If we stop now, we can cook the rest of our rations and set off for Chang-guo at dawn. Though,” he looks up at the sky then, “It’s going to rain soon. We should put up the tarps if we’re going to stay up here.”

Lan Fan nods. “Understood, my lord,” and Ling wrinkles his nose, shooting her a look at her for her propriety before dismounting and setting his horse off to graze. Mei rolls her eyes and glares something fierce at him.

“We’re close enough to Chang territory that I can set off to find firewood on my own, Ling Yao, so I’ll be taking my leave,” and she tilts her head in direction to Lan Fan, who is brushing the mane of her horse, before spinning on her heel, her braids a whirl of beaded whips. Xiao Mei makes a little face at him too, baring her teeth. They might as well have cracked a whip at him, actually. It amuses him for but a moment before he turns to approach Lan Fan.

“The Chang Princess seems as observant as ever.” The words would have come off colder if she didn’t have a lopsided smile on her face. It doesn’t keep her from looking any less exhausted.

“I’d wager that you’re even more observant yourself, Lan Fan.” He takes this as an invitation to step forward and is almost whipped by her horse’s tail. The mare whinnies as if she’s laughing and Ling doesn’t take politely to it; at least, he thinks, it causes some tension to roll off of Lan Fan’s shoulders.

In Lan Fan’s pack on the ground, right in the side pocket, are Fu’s ashes. As much as Ling wanted to bring his body back, Lan Fan herself, ever the more mature one between them, told him it’d be best to burn his body before departing from Amestris and bring his ashes back to Xing. She’d said rather coldly that his body would have been a burden—for both of them, really.

Or, on second thought, it wasn’t coldness. She had been biting back the grief that threatened to spill over because she, too, would have rather had him have a proper burial. But Ling had sworn to her, Fu, and himself that they would give him a properly marked grave at the palace in Yao-guo and a shrine in the Imperial Palace.

Lan Fan gazes carefully at him, offering him a look of concern.

Ling takes a breath.

“Are you… alright?” Finally slips from his mouth with a frown.

Immediately she stiffens, turning away to keep brushing the horse’s mane. He almost wants to bite the words back down.

She purses her lips, her hands falling; there’s no way to distract herself from his question—or him, for that matter. They only have so much time until they return to Yao country and they’re suffocated by stuffy and stubborn tradition. If there’s any reason to be honest, besides honoring her master’s wishes, the least Lan Fan can do is be honest with her own _self_ before she loses the right to do so.

Her answer is mindful of status but still honest. “I’m as well as I can be,” a pause, a tensed breath. “ _Ling_.” And then a release of some too thick tension between them.

The sky wilts and cracks then, a sudden flurry of rain droplets coming down.

It isn’t often that she says his name of her own accord. Only when they’re alone, really, and Lan Fan is brave enough to let her walls down—which is rarer, really, than a day of rain in the expanse of desert they just managed to cross a few days ago.

Something finally curdles right in Ling’s gut, something that had been sitting there for weeks, he realizes. As the smile falls from her face and she reaches for the brush again, his hand catches her wrist—the flesh one, pulsing and warm with life—and she spins, something frantic spreading wildly across her face, and for the first time in a while, their eyes meet close, direct, and neither of them remember how to move.

The rain slides slick between their hands and only makes the touch more apparent—and familiar. An ache forms deep in the bodyguard’s shoulder.

“Promise me, Lan Fan, you’ll take care of yourself.”

Her lips part, and some breath of an empty vocalization comes out, but instead she just nods, reassuring him as best she can.

The rain is an erratic thrumming now, slipping down Lan Fan’s cowl and into her shirt. It’s best they put up cover, lest they get sick; when she parts away from Ling she looks him in the eyes one last time before turning away.

Best to stifle the sorrow before it has a chance to well over.

It isn’t until they’re around the fire at night, the flames diminishing themselves to ashes, Lan Fan taking first watch and Mei fast asleep, that Ling knows what that heavy feeling inside him is. It’s a fraction of what Greed is—was, _was_ , he corrects himself—and can be nothing more or less than want, desire, something needy sitting there below his abdomen. He’d wanted to comfort Lan Fan, to come to her side and make sure she was cared for, that she could grieve without worry for him watching or disallowing it.

And, with her wretchedly beautiful smile, he _covets._

Though the feeling is certainly not new, it swirls there in him, and he must carefully tuck it back down—it would only prove problematic if he allowed it to roam freely there inside him.

Still. He smiles then, to himself, and even Lan Fan can feel his _qi_ brighten lightly.

“Young Lord.” She warns carefully, almost _irritated_. “Please go to sleep.”

 _That’s_ the Lan Fan he knows. He shifts and yawns. “Whatever the bodyguard says.”

Ling really only ends up half-dreaming and half-thinking the rest of the night.

 

* * *

 

 

The morning was as eventful as Mei would expect—her and Lan Fan had to keep Ling from whining about food and split the rations with him evenly, despite the boisterous complaints of his stomach. Eventually, through duty, worry, or pity (or perhaps all three) Lan Fan ended up giving him the last half of her bread, to which he bowed down and praised his bodyguard.

She didn’t take very well to being seen as superior and wailed about how Ling should never bow to her—then, Mei watched as it became a childish competition of how far low the other could bow. The burst of giggles that leapt from her mouth couldn’t be helped, but upon hearing her mirth Lan Fan promptly stood, her face a brilliant shade of red, picking up Ling with her. He only blankly grinned.

It was clear how far back their friendship extended. Mei knew little of Ling’s past but she knows he is as serious as he is equal parts playful and childish, and perhaps, she thinks with a smirk, spoiled at times. The more the two of them warmed up to Mei the more Ling was playful with his bodyguard like this, especially since there were no prying eyes—no Elrics, no Amestrian military, no groaning of the Dragon’s Pulse underground. (Here the Dragon’s Pulse is a bright, clear stream.)

Mei reasons that they were probably both used to only one pair of fond eyes watching them.

 _May Spirits rest his soul_ , she thinks, snapping from her reverie to look ahead at Lan Fan. A hand comes up to pat Xiao Mei’s snoozing head.

It’s almost noon now, the last of the morning fog rolling away back into the forests. It seems to curtail back into the trees, thin wisps of wet air leaving only traces of morning dew behind. And the air, too—it smells so fresh and so purely of rain, of Chang-guo, of Xiaohua, the tiny royal city of the Changs, of _Xing._ It is a welcomed comfort that delights the Chang Princess so much she hums to herself.

“Ah, are you missing a certain Elric brother, Miss Chang?” Ling pipes up from Mei’s right, clearly satisfied with himself.

“Try missing my homeland, _dear brother of mine_ ,” and to that Ling chuckles behind his sleeve. Before Mei has a chance to even threaten him she hears the sound of a sleek click and slide, then catches the sunlight glint off of the blade in Lan Fan’s metal forearm, her sideways glare thrown rather _un_ mercifully at Mei.

Mei sticks her tongue out with a scowl, Ling splutters into a fit of mixed snorts and laughter, and Lan Fan turns ahead—but not before Mei can spot the smug smile pulling at Lan Fan’s mouth.

“There, ahead,” Lan Fan says after a moment, pointing towards the gates in the distance. Ling Yao clears his throat, returning to his serious self.

Mei wells up with joy, exclaiming “Xiaohua!” to the (purring? Ling questions) little bear before darting off on her horse, a surprised Ling and Lan Fan left to glance at each other in surprise.

“That one is too energetic,” Ling remarks, kicking his steed into gear. Lan Fan smiles softly at his back.

They’re really, _finally_ home in Xing.

 

* * *

 

 

It doesn’t take long for them to reach the Chang Estate—it couldn’t be called a palace, but Ling knew it was home for little Mei Chang, and they’d been greeted warmly besides. It was the largest structure within the city; really, the Changs must have taken up at least a quarter of the entire city. Or perhaps even a third, Lan Fan wonders to herself, from up on the rooftops, purviewing the surrounding area with the stretch of her _qi_.

There’s two gardens within the compound, thrumming with life, and she can feel even the pull of buds aching to burst into bloom. Even _that_ says something about Mei’s clan and the state of classism within Xing; despite being one of the poorer clans, they have two gardens within the place. (Then again, the servants were more comfortable here, and Mei had said the compound employed most of the people in the city. Lan Fan supposes they are likely viewed on more equal grounds.) There’s the feel of Mei and Ling below, as what she can only describe as a lush peony in bloom and a yellow ray of summer light. Stretching further, she sinks into the feeling of the Dragon’s Pulse, a thrum of heartbeats. It’s as the alchemists in the West say—“one is all, all is one”—for even her own heartbeat falls into the flurry of other pulses until they all dissolve into one.

For what feels like the hundredth time, Lan Fan really feels _home_.

Brushing the sentiment away, she focuses for any malicious intent. There’s what she realizes as a dog fending for food, a child throwing a tantrum, and a rather pissed off elder further away competing for the title of Best Tantrum Thrower with said child, but other than that, nothing murderous, venomous, or otherwise worthy of being called malevolent.

Her shoulders loosen and, with a newfound contentment, she descends from the rooftop down to where Ling Yao and Mei Chang are.

“Young Lord,” she greets, then, “Mei.”

Though Lan Fan persists, Ling Yao has to crack a rather inappropriate joke in order to persuade her that he's going to bathe alone.

A bath feels like heaven. Though the Changs certainly didn’t have the expanse of extra hot baths Ling is used to in his home he won’t complain. There’s room for him to sprawl out unlike the tight showers of Amestris, and the scent of fresh flowers carries in through the window—no, he observes, there’s flowers in the bathhouse, too, along the windowsill, threaded through the room in handily crafted porcelain vases. The detail is unique in design and the colors more vibrant than any fine porcelain he’s seen before.

A thought occurs to him then. Meeting with the Chang Princess about expanding porcelain trade would have to happen at some point.

Ling hadn’t forgotten his promise to the young princess and to Lan Fan. Deep in his soul he aches to do right by his people, and now more than ever, he aches to do right by Lan Fan.

First her arm, and now her only family. He couldn’t fail her. There was no more room in his heart for failure, for making Lan Fan weep and sacrifice so much for him. Something that feels like just a taste, a precious _remnant_ of Greed rumbles within him, proud and protective—maybe _possessive_ is a more appropriate description—and he flicks the water with a start, standing up to towel off and meet with the Chang clan members for lunch.

With water still lingering in his hair, Ling dresses in the deep blue long robes that had been graciously given to him by two giggling maidservants, whispering about if he was a prince or not—he only offered a smile and a small thanks, and sent them away. They’d ran away in a fit of squeals; he must have made quite the princely impression.

Or, Ling muses, they were just entertained by his oafishness. He had been without the customs and manners of an Imperial Prince of Xing for a while, after all.

The click of wooden wind chimes follows him down the hall and it brings a mysterious feeling of welcome with it.

Lan Fan bows to Ling in the hall adjacent to him, coming to stand at his side with her eyes glued to the floor. At her lord’s side she nearly sputters in spite of herself.

Dressed in long robes similar in style to his, she remarks how they were the plainest they could find—the maidservants had to wrench her dirty clothes away from her while she was in the bath, and she’d apparently been too flustered to even think of chasing them out the bathhouse. (Before she could swat them away they braided her hair, too, commenting on how lovely Lan Fan’s neck was and how soft and silken her hair felt; though she’d never had time for such pleasantries, a girlish part of her was tickled pink.)

As such, they’d dressed her in a jade green long robe, a garment of the Chief Mistress, with a blossom pink underneath. The left sleeve was rolled up (Lan Fan, ever the warrior on the offense in foreign territory) but the blade had been tucked away, and she’d managed to keep her chestpiece and her pauldrons on over the robes.

Ling tears his eyes away—he hadn’t seen her look so girlish in _years_ , especially in traditional Xingese dress—and turns his gaze to the approaching Mei Chang.

“Ling Yao, Lan Fan, this is my scholar, Bao Chang,” a slight gesture of the hand to the woman behind her, with comically shiny glasses and one black lock sticking out of place from her neatly tucked away hair. She bows, hands folded neatly in front of her.

“Twelfth Son of the Emperor, warmest welcomes and greetings to you,” Bao says plainly. Her eyes come to rest on Lan Fan and Bao’s cheeks immediately flush. “And to his bodyguard. I hope you are at home here,” a bashful smile curls on her face, eyes stuck to her feet.

Lan Fan clears her throat and looks away, scratching the back of her head.

 _You and Edward Elric are not too different_ , Ling muses.

 

* * *

 

 

Over lunch, Ling becomes familiar with the Princess Chang’s family—the Chief Mistress (her maternal grandmother, he realizes) is a homely woman, dressed in the pale cream of an orange blossom and faint hints of pearls in her hair, and the Chief of the Chang clan is dressed in a complementary deep rouge.

Her mother resides at the Chang compound, they learn, and she joins them later, bowing and apologizing all in one huff and moving her braids over her shoulder. Mei is the spitting image of her mother, Ling realizes. Only her mother is taller with a longer, less rounded face, and certainly slender and poise when she tries—she also prefers orange to Mei Chang’s rosier palette.

Something clicks in the gears of Ling’s mind as he remembers deep from within his memories that the symbol of the Changs was the peony. The Changs, as a unit, dressed in the colors of all sorts of peonies.

It pleased some familial part of him.

Later on, Ling decides to take a stroll through the small Chang Estate with the Lady Chang, Lan Fan ever his shadow, never more than five steps behind him.

“I was never a favorite wife of the Emperor, health and long life to his name,” Lady Chang comments, hands folded in front of her. Her hair is streaked with white, half pulled delicately in a bun at the back of her head with a simple jade ornament, the other half in braids streaming down her back like black rope. “He’d taken to the beautiful Zhao and the delicate Qing by the time I was eligible to marry; one of the crafty Ning girls had already plotted my downfall before I’d even arrived at the Imperial Palace. I wasn’t banished but I surely fell out of favor—then again, us Changs have never been favorites of the Empire, either.”

Ling nods intently, listening to her story. There was never a moment in his life he’d responded kindly to injustice, especially between the Xingese people.

“I wasn’t banished, but I had the choice of fleeing with my daughter intact to give _us_ a fighting chance, or,” her face twists into something grim, “face the consequences of power-hungry princesses, eager to destroy any and all competition for their children, too. I wasn’t born into a high-ranking clan, and neither was Mei. We’ve grown economically in the time Mei has been away, but we’re small.

“We have no military, and although we’ve been doing better, Chang-guo is still… weak, and incomparable to most of the other clans,” the Lady Chang turns to him, lips pursed, eyes wet.

Sweeping into a deep bow, it is all she can do to not weep. “Please, _please_ don’t forget Mei Chang when you claim the throne, Prince Ling Yao.”

He stares into the fiery resolve of her eyes and wills her to relent.

“I will not rest until the fighting between the clans ceases permanently, Lady Chang. You have my word—I swear upon my clan, my rite to the throne, I will honor you and all those who have suffered.” A slight pause. “The people of Xing share the same blood, the same sweat, the same tears. There is no reason we should not all be on equal grounds. The in-fighting,” a hand pats Lady Chang’s shoulder, “It will cease. Permanently.” He offers a smile and his arm out to her, and she takes it graciously.

“Thank you, Ling Yao. Thank you.”

Five steps away, Lan Fan gazes into the garden, hopeful.

 

* * *

 

 

Lan Fan always rises before Ling does. It was habit really; though she’d liked to have slept in and worn off all her aches and pains, his needs came before her own, always—that was the way Grandfather had trained her as a young girl, and it stuck with her forever. This was— _is_ —her duty.

Without a sound she rises from the futon she’d slept on, creeping to the sliding door and stepping out into the garden. A sweep of the Dragon’s Pulse tells her that she is the first to rise in the compound. Not straying far from the sleeping Prince, she stretches, rolls her shoulder, where a dull ache still makes home.

They’d been at the Chang estate for a few weeks now, and it was high time they leave for Yao country.

 _Yao-guo._ Wide fields, busy streets, the many food vendors and gardens Lan Fan had run off to with Ling as a child—when he managed to convince her, that is. And there was the phoenix emblem that had watched her every move—yes, Lan Fan ached for the eyes of that fire bird, on every street corner, decorating the trim of tapestries in the Yao palace, the room of the Yao Chief.

She wonders what they’ll make of her automail arm.

_Sliced bone. Pools of blood. A useless arm._

Before the thoughts have a chance to consume her there’s the stroke of Ling’s _qi_ from inside the room, a growing beam of light—golden and warm, sleepy, _caring._

She turns to face her master when the faint slip of the door meets her ears.

“Awake so early, Lan Fan?”

“As to you, Young Lord,” she retorts quietly, her stare already fixated on him. Somewhere in the back of her mind she wonders if he’d slept at all.

There’s a moment of silence as they both turn to face the garden. Light begins to show over the roof of the compound, a slow crawl of pink signaling the approaching dawn. Sparrows flit over head; there’s the stir of wind, clinking the wooden chimes into a misshapen melody. The thrum of _qi_ serves as a beat, somewhere to tie home as rhythm—in a sense, the light of Ling’s _qi_ is a home to return to, something to tie Lan Fan down and give purpose to her very existence.

She thinks aloud.

“There is nothing I would not do for you, Master Ling,” she says, clear as the whistle of an arrow shot through the air, its song just as true. She knows it’s hits its exact target when he gives just slightly.

“Nothing, you say? Careful what you make promise to, Lan Fan,” a wolfish grin crosses his features before he falls silent, still smiling to himself, considering her words like a fine Amestrian pastry.

“ _Nothing_ ,” she repeats, the syllables stressed. The smile falls and he becomes stoic. “I only beg of you that you hold true to your word. To help all of those in Xing,” she states, and her eyes mirror that of Edward Elric again, burning, pleading, _aching_ all in one.

He does not say it, but there is nothing he would not do for his bodyguard, either.

The look in her eyes is still fierce. There’s more there, right on her tongue. More, _more_ , Ling _wants_ her to say more, to express, to give.

“I am loyal only to you,” Lan Fan murmurs, and she breathes like she’d been clenching, _grasping_ at something, holding it in tightly, and had finally just found her release. An absolution.

The question comes slowly from his mouth, tongue painting a fine stroke of each word.

“You would do anything for me?”

Without hesitation she answers. “Yes.”

“Good,” he says, looking at her from the corner of his eye, “There is much to do and even more to fix in this country. I’ll need you, Lan Fan.”

Lan Fan says nothing, only nods. _This_ is her duty. Her only purpose, from birthright, was to live, breathe, and die for Ling Yao.

And she would not have it any other way.


	2. River Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The troupe makes it back to Yao-guo—and with it comes the introduction (and reintroduction to Ling and Lan Fan) of Yao clan members. Xinyi Yao loves her son and will do anything for him. There are no lengths she will not go to just to ensure the Yao are in power.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey all! i'm posting ch 1 and ch 2 in one night! link to my music while i work: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLjYxCbfu_66zBvDkU6ABoPbbjW7nvQR1D
> 
> this chapter is Rito Village (Night) (BotW) up to Lady Eboshi (Princess Mononoke). i forgot to mention each section marks the beginning of a new piece of music. i've taken a lot of classical music recs i've played. they are my pride and joy, especially the ones i've played as violin solos and as concertmaster in my university's orchestra. cheers!
> 
> okay, here's the characters in this chapter.
> 
> Ling Yao - Honored Prince of Xing on the outside, baby boy prince on the inside.  
> Lan Fan - Babysitter and sometimes bodyguard of Ling Yao.  
> Mei Chang - Energetic and fiery Chang Princess.  
> Bao Chang - Closeted gay scholar of Mei Chang. Crushing on Lan Fan if you squint.  
> Shu Hai Yao - Cousin of Ling and lesser princess of the Yao clan. Makes everything she does really cute.  
> Shou Yao - General of the Yao clan. Smitten with Shu Hai and fails adorably at hiding his taking up with her.  
> Xinyi Yao - Mother of Ling Yao and adored by the Yao clan. Protective and possessive of her only son. Gentle and very caring, but ruthless when it comes time to be so. (My personal favorite of the OCs I've crafted for FLWW.)

On the way to Yao-guo the terrain becomes rockier and the number of people the group passes rises. It would be a day’s trip time; they would arrive in the evening at dusk by Bao Chang’s approximations.

Since Mei had insisted on bringing Bao along they had one extra person with them. It made for excellent conversation. Bao certainly lived up to her title as a scholar, and she’d taken a liking to Lan Fan, too.

“What do you make of the peony as the symbol of the Changs?” Lan Fan asks. Ling leads their troupe this time, noting of how they were safe now, with the three women flanking him. He listens keenly to their conversation.

Bao pauses a moment.

“Well, traditionally, the Changs are represented by the coral peony, not just any peony,” she gestures to Mei Chang who flushes and smiles, tittering shyly to herself, “Which is why the Chang prince or princess traditionally wears pink. Lady Chang says that when Princess Mei was born the first of the coral peonies came into bloom and that it was a sign the Changs would prosper—after all, the peony, in traditional Xingese horticulture, can mean honor and wealth.” A smile graces Bao’s features, pink tingeing her cheeks. “She’s absolutely honored our clan.”

“Come now, _Bao_ ,” Mei practically whines, but even Lan Fan knows that Mei loves the praise, the fiery thing she is.

From atop her mare Lan Fan looks over at Bao. Half of her hair is tied back, the little lock of black standing up out of her bun. Bao looks away when she meets her gaze.

“And you, Lady Lan Fan, what do you make of the Yao Phoenix?”

Ling lets out a little snort when he feels his bodyguard’s _qi_ stiffen and he swears he can _feel_ her blush even when he’s not looking at her.

“Just Lan Fan is fine, Miss Bao,” she states, attempting to force down the redness in her ears.

“The Yao clan phoenix is that of a male phoenix, as I’m sure you know, Miss Bao,” Ling proclaims after a moment. Lan Fan looks to him, pride rippling through her  _qi._

“Indeed. The Yao family’s phoenix is that of the yang energy—light, summer, fire, and masculinity—to represent the power of the Yao clan.” Lan Fan pats her mare and looks ahead towards Ling.

“Though certainly there’s more to the phoenix than we let on,” Ling says with a wink at Bao. Mei shoots him a look that says _don’t you dare let any secrets slip_.

 _Yes,_ Lan Fan thinks to herself. _The phoenix is also_ immortality _, and soon enough, Ling will be the phoenix upon the Imperial Throne._

As the sun begins to make its descent below the horizon, the royal city of Yao-guo, Jiaodao, makes itself apparent. The road becomes wider, parting for space wider than two caravans, and there’s street lights; in the distance, Ling can feel the flow of water with his _qi_ and, without sensing them, he knows the last of the fishermen are carrying home their day’s earnings before the mosquitos come out in their bloodthirsty swarms. No one has recognized him yet, and it’s quite the relief; there’s only a certain amount of this precious privacy he has left. More and more people pass them on the road, some waving hello or tilting their heads in greeting.

Lan Fan pulls up her cowl and frowns. Her mask stays tied to her hip.

As they meet the Southern Gate of Jiaodao Mei Chang remarks how tall and grand the doors are, Bao whispering about the intricacies of the Yao Phoenix carved on the front. She estimated the doors must have been at least eight meters high. (Warmth flooded the Yao Prince’s chest at their words.)

He greets the guardsmen at the gate, makes his identity known.

In an instant the men at the gate prostrate themselves before him, stuttering their thanks and flustered praises. Inside the gates children whisper about the Yao prince returning and many of the townspeople turn to stare.

The troupe collectively dismounts, walking their horses in the busy road—it makes blending in and winding through the streams of people a little easier.

A child runs up to Ling and gazes in awe, tugging the foot of his robe; his mother quickly snatches him away and bows her head in apology but Ling waves them off.

“It’s a warm welcome, miss,” Ling states nonchalantly, and some guilt falls away from the woman’s face. With a smile she clicks her tongue and nods her boy along.

Lan Fan watches the exchange happily.

Taking a long sniff in the air, Ling smiles before his stomach growls and he starts pouting. “Do we have enough money left for food?”

“Young Lord, we’ll be at the palace soon enough. Then you can eat to your heart’s content.” He still sulks. Lan Fan hides her face in her sleeve.

 

* * *

 

The palace sits atop a hill in Jiaodao as the Northern Heart of the city. A stream passes through the middle of the city, right at the base of the Imperial Grounds, marking officially that Ling Yao and Lan Fan are indeed _home_.

Warm weather must have made the cherry blossoms come in late this year. The flurry of pink leads them up the steps to the smaller gates of the Northern Heart, where two phoenixes are in dance on the front of the golden gate. The lower phoenix is bowed, submissive; her back and wing feathers are a wild blaze, tail trailing behind her in a ring of curls. The higher phoenix bears his stomach, all grandeur and royalty, his wings spread and circled around the other firebird. Sometimes in the low light of dusk with the fickle illumination of the lamps and streetlights Ling swears he can see them move, dancing in immortal, unending circles, either of them ascending and falling and bowing and rising, even when he gazes at them directly.

Their horses are taken from them and once inside, the attendants bow (much lower than the waist or a simple lowering of the head, Mei Chang notices) and offer pleasantries—warm, damp towels, water, fruit. A handmaiden comes to tell Ling that his mother is waiting for him in the dining room.

“The eastern or the western?”

“Western,” the handmaiden says, bowing deeply before walking off. Thank the spirits, that means privacy.

Ling turns the princess and Bao Chang over to the servants to wash and eat, but motions his bodyguard to come with him.

 _No more and no less than five steps behind,_  Lan Fan reminds herself.

 

* * *

 

Xinyi Yao receives word that her son has returned to Xing and will arrive in Jiaodao in the evening by messenger bird. The matter of his message was simple without giving any hint of his mission or his journey to Amestris:

_The Yao Phoenix is born again._

For how Ling Yao had spoken before he’d departed with nearly nothing to Amestris she knew her son would not fail his clan or anyone else in Xing. Perhaps it was the proud part of her or the dutiful mother in her, but Xinyi Yao knew from by the time he was five years old that he would be the only one of the Emperor’s children to sit upon the Imperial Throne after his death.

Rising from the bath smelling of lavender and jasmine, Xinyi steps out of the water and beckons the handmaidens forward to dry her off. Her shoulders are spread wide and proud, naked legs like towers of ivory. The steam rolls off of her in white curls. As one of the servant girls gently brushes the long curtain of black silk that is her hair she offers her neck to another, allowing her to rub a jasmine-scented salve into the crooks of her neck and her inner wrists.

Xinyi admires herself in the long mirror on the adjacent wall, her arms spread like that of a dancer, elegant and impossibly poise as the robes of traditional Yao yellow and black are slipped onto her. They seem to ripple and pour onto her form with no force at all.

“My Lady Yao,” a young girl bows to her, holding an array of hair ornaments and jewelry in a lacquered box, “which would you like for this evening?” There’s a selection of gold and pearls, opal, jade, and ebony combs.

Extending her long neck and displaying her blood red nails over the column of her throat, Xinyi only hums. “Which do you think would compliment my face more, my sweet?”

The girl softens and faces the Lady Yao. “If this one might offer her opinion, I would say the gold and pearls would best compliment my lady’s choice of wear tonight, as well as these pearl earrings.”

Xinyi nods, allowing the girl to brush the sides of her hair into a comb, shaped like that of a phoenix with gold and pearls.

Another girl dots coal over her eyelids and rouges her cheeks and lips while the younger girl fastens azaleas into the creases of her hair and snaps the earrings into place.

Eventually Xinyi waves them away to look at herself in the mirror. Not that she is elderly yet, but dressed like this she looks ever more youthful; she’d given birth to Ling Yao when she was only seventeen years old and he was the same age now. Her form is graceful even as she’s still, the silk flowing in and around her like rivers of gold. Folding her hands inwards she allows her eyes to drift downwards to the line of her collarbone, just barely visible from the collar of her _ruqun_.

She is, in all senses of the word, an exceptionally svelte woman; her beauty is her armor and how she has managed to survive in court all her life.

Once they leave the room Xinyi Yao’s ladies-in-waiting have already come to seek her company. Waving the young handmaidens off she joins the women and leads the way to the Western dining room where she departs from them as well, waiting for her son inside.

When Ling arrives he is also dressed in Yao yellow, but with green along the trim of his robes. Xinyi moves like a swan, bending her head and hands in one sweeping motion to bow to him from the ground. His hands reach forward and find hers, raising her to her feet before he gathers her into an embrace.

“My son, how you do Xing so proud,” she murmurs, and Ling wonders how long it took for her to perfect the sweet lilt to her voice.

“It’s good to see you, mother.”

“And your bodyguards? How is that blossom of yours? Fu?”

He stiffens. “Fu… did not make it. Lan Fan is just outside the door.”

Xinyi lowers her head in sorrow and motions her head in understanding. “Come, bring the girl in, too.”

Lan Fan steps into the room, wearing simple burgundy long robes and her chestpiece and pauldrons overtop, and bows before Ling’s mother. “My Lady Yao,” she offers her manicured hand forward; Lan Fan takes it with her flesh fingers, head still lowered.

After they’ve finished eating and Xinyi Yao delicately dabs her mouth with a soft handkerchief, the movement like that of a peacock ruffling its feathers, she turns herself to Ling, hands concealed in her robes. Servants come in to pour tea but she waves them away—they must be allowed privacy for this discussion and so she pours the tea herself. Lan Fan watches the slight of Lady Xinyi Yao’s wrist, a hint of porcelain that would be tantalizing to any man and envy-inducing in any woman.

“You say the phoenix shall rise, my son?”

A glint of avaricious curiosity flashes over her eyes. Perhaps it was not Greed that left such traces of intense desire inside him. Maybe it was all Xinyi Yao. Her mask of delicacy and pleasure is quickly slid back into place.

Though, there’s no reason to not trust his mother. Her love is not superficial or a mask. Xinyi is eager to see her son rise to the throne, but Ling wonders if its for her own personal reasons of exacting revenge. (The Emperor had not been fond of her—he’d feigned contempt and disgust when courting her, but really, he feared the power Xinyi had and how she could wield it, and so, like the Lady Chang, she too had fallen out of the Emperor’s favor.)

“Indeed, mother,” he says after a beat, resting his cheek into his closed fist, elbow on his knee. A catlike grin stretches across his features. In question she tilts her head, the light pouring down her neck. Ling wonders silently how she had clawed her way to power with that effortless beauty. Eventually he reaches into his sleeve, the same golden yellow of her own robes, and pulls forward the Philosopher’s Stone. It gleams pinkish in the light, viscous, liquid-smooth, a swirl of hoarded and abandoned souls resting there in the bottle, sealed off with cork. Balancing it between his fingers in front of her is almost like watching a fox wait for its meal.

“This is the _immortality_ the Emperor spoke of?”

“Yes. The Philosopher’s Stone, the Red Stone, the Grand Elixir itself.”

“Then you’ll be taking the Imperial Throne,” she pauses, then taps a sharp red nail to her chin. Lan Fan doesn’t know if it’s more like a cat or a hawk. Something fearful yanks her stomach downwards regardless.

“I will. And I will do right by all of Xing. I need as many people on my side as I can get. Might I ask, mother,” she looks up from her tea—chrysanthemum, Lan Fan realizes, as she takes a sip from her cup, “If you would pledge your loyalty to me when I ascend to the throne, and do what you can in your power as Empress Dowager to fulfill my wishes?”

Xinyi considers this with a thoughtful roll of her head, a light smile gracing her heart-shaped mouth. Then, she reaches a perfect hand forward, cupping the side of her son’s face and giving a little laugh. It would be more gentle if Ling did not know the lengths Xinyi would go to protect her son. It is protective more than anything. When her chest heaves with that tinkling laughter there’s venom behind it.

“I would do anything for you, my precious son.”

When she withdraws her hand she drags it along the lacquer of the wood, tipping the jar containing the Philosopher’s Stone with her sharpened nail.

“And are you pleased to do so?” Ling questions then, seeking her intentions.

“Very. I am proud of you. And you, blossom,” she moves to face Lan Fan, examining her face for a moment, “You’ve done well to protect my dear son while away in Amestris. I trust you are loyal and whatever you might need to further protect him I will provide.”

Lan Fan does not speak, only opts to bow. Her heart is in her throat for how she both respects and fears Ling’s mother. The Lady Yao eyes her carefully.

“You do well by your clan,” she states to Ling.

With that Xinyi Yao returns to her tea, looking much like a cat having caught the mouse.

 

* * *

 

In the night Lan Fan waits patiently outside of Ling’s chambers. Between her fingers is the urn holding her grandfather’s ashes and, with the weight there in her hands, she feels as if her fingers might crack and break underneath it. She trembles and focuses on stilling her movement. The sky is clear, a sliver of moon hanging in the sky. The new moon will be here soon and she is reminded of how Fu will not see the moon here in Xing again—of how many nights they both sat awake praying for Ling’s health, wanting nothing more than to be next to their master’s side, and all the nights they fled the city streets of Amestris, fled the military police, fled the neverending feeling of the crying Dragon’s Pulse beneath their feet. He was there when her arm was attached, the moon hanging high in the sky and her tears muffled by her head tucked in her cowl. Though Fu was not one for affection he comforted her in every way he could. He spoke often, too, of returning to Xing, of making Ling Emperor.

And he was a proud grandfather, at that.

Before Lan Fan can crack under the pressure of the grief her master steps silently out of his rooms with a candle in hand. The door clicks shut and he is already leading the path forward. _Five steps behind, no more, no less_ , Lan Fan thinks, and her mask is on because that’s what Fu would want, and he wouldn’t want her to cry either, considering he’d _died smiling_ of all things—

“He wanted his ashes to be scattered in the training fields,” Lan Fan says quietly, trying hard as she might to not have her voice choke or stumble over the words. She hopes she does not speak out of turn but right now the hurt outweighs her need for propriety.

A solemn look comes over his face. They walk.

They don’t speak. They only allow the wind to carry every bit of Fu away, guided by the way of Xing—the air itself is guided by life, by the Dragon’s Pulse. Every movement is one, and all movement can be traced back to the very first movement of time. _One is all, all is one._ Lan Fan sucks in a breath when they’ve emptied the urn, sharp and quick, biting back something that makes her heart and her left shoulder ache terribly. She cannot cry. Her grandfather would not want or allow her to cry, not in front of the prince—but then he weeps, too, sniffling like a child and tears free falling down his cheeks, and Lan Fan can’t help but cry. The tears are silent, dripping down into her cowl, down into her collarbone. They cry and cry and they stand there in the moonlight, Ling snuffing the candle to signify the end, smoke billowing up into the same wind that carried Fu away so mercilessly.

“My lord, please don’t—don’t cry, I, _I_ —”

Propriety be damned he gathers her into a tight embrace, so close and so warm that Lan Fan can’t tell if the tears streaming down her face are his or her own. There’s only the wet trickle on her skin.

“Your arm, _your arm_ Lan Fan, and now your grandfather… For heaven’s sake Lan Fan, when will you stop sacrificing your life for mine?”

“ _Never_ ,” she spits out, almost bitter at the thought, her metal hand clutching at the fabric on his back. “Never,” she whispers again, hoarse, still without any hiccup or hint of a sob.

“This was my grandfather’s duty, Ling Yao. He would not have wanted to die a sick old man in bed. He died with honor, fighting for you, he… let him _rest_ now, my lord. Let him rest,” still she grips at the lapel of his robe, pulling away only to search his eyes for something, _anything._

Ling smiles, full of sorrow, down at his bodyguard.

“Everything we do from here on out, we do it for Fu,” Ling speaks out to the open air. The stars glimmer. The moon is a beacon, a home, a calling voice. (In silence the universe agrees with her master.)

“Yes, my lord.”

 

* * *

 

The news of the General Yao returning to Jiaodao after his tour throughout Yao-guo ruffles the feathers of everyone in the Northern Heart; Even Xinyi herself is tickled pink, happy to hear the young man is safe and well—more importantly _intact_ —and dresses for the occasion. There’s great fanfares of words carried through the halls and through the streets of the boastful Beast of the Yao clan, melodies of praise to his victories, and a warm light of hope and prosperity flowing in and out the streets of Jiaodao.

The Yao prince is no exception. With the spring sun seeping into the skin of his shoulders (his shirt is sleeveless for such a warm day) he’s awaiting the arrival of Shou Yao, the general of the Yao clan, in order to discuss the future of the role of the military in Xing and defensive measures of the Imperial City. A snicker escapes Ling’s mouth; the General Yao might not appreciate being moved to the Imperial City and assimilated into Ling’s team of guards, but it won’t do to not have every single trusted Yao clan member within an arm’s reach.

Of course, if the Lady Yao has played her cards right, he’ll go of his own accord. Anywhere a certain lesser Yao princess goes the General Yao is bound to follow.

“Ling Yao!” _Speak of the devil._ If it hadn’t been a human voice it’d be like the trill of a robin, but Ling would know that voice anywhere.

He’s in one of the gardens of the Northern Heart perusing some scrolls and old tomes having to do with Imperial Tradition. (Lan Fan is perched to the side, impossibly still, standing guard.) If it were anyone beside his family he’d hide the titles under his sleeve; knowing her bright voice though there’s no need to hide.

“Cousin Shu Hai!” Ling shouts, outstretching his arms in joy. The girl tumbles into Ling’s arms and looks up at him, clasping her hands and swelling with pride.

“I’ve heard of your successes, Ling! You make the Yao Phoenix envy the glow of your triumph.” With a clap of her fan she calms herself and hides behind the shimmer of painted plum blossoms on the front.

“It seems you’ve done well to study the craft of poetry while I’ve been away, little wordsmith.”

Shu Hai is a petite thing—she does not stand any taller than Lan Fan’s chin—but wise beyond her years, and the youth of her skin (and voice) deceiving. Older than Ling Yao by two years she’s somewhat grown into the roundness of her cheeks. Ling has yet to do so and some part of him envies the smoothness of her jaw and cheekbones. Still, those are Yao genes if he’s ever seen them.

After a moment he relaxes. “I hear of your successes in your studies,” Ling pats her shoulder then, “and how is that _general_ of ours?”

A flush spreads on the young woman’s face then, diving deeper behind her fan.

“ _Shou_ is well. When you left he made it his responsibility to take care of the Yao clan in any way he could. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you—and spar with you—when he’s here.”

For a moment Ling is reminded of Winry Rockbell, with her shining hair and loud and glittering laugh. Shu Hai is dressed in a light jade green _ruqun,_ a sheen of blue satin overlaid on top and the shawl draped over her sharing the same color. There’s opals and pearls stitched in the fabric and woven through her brown hair—most of it is pulled away from her face and, considering how long it’s been since Ling has last seen her, she’s _most definitely_ had a new stylist come in during his time away, for he’d known Shu Hai to be the girl whining about being yanked away from the dirt or blowing raspberries at the dinner table when they were children.

 _Dirt Princess_ they’d called her, despite her ocean namesake, for how she avoided taking baths, too.

“I’ll be leaving for the Imperial City within three months’ time, dear cousin.”

The look she gives him nearly takes him out by the knees.

“So soon, Ling?”

The creases in his face soften. “There is much to do and little time to relax. While the current Emperor is still alive I need to gather the necessary tools to begin my reign.” Her lips curl sentimentally.

“I’ve been wanting to take over as the Yao chief here, but…”

“...That simply won’t do.” He states, looking down at the ground.

They both look at the same apparently fascinating patch of grass. “I don’t think they’d allow me to, anyways.”

Shu Hai Yao was born to the main branch of the Yao family by all technicalities. However, her mother had been the illegitimate child of the Chief of the Yao clan, born out of wedlock; as such her mother was never even considered for a wife of the Emperor and had little to do with the political or courtly affairs of the Yao. She’d been shunned and disgraced by most but never by Xinyi Yao—and that was her saving grace. Xinyi took a liking to her half-sister (Ling wonders for a moment if he and his mother are all that different) and as they’d grown older she’d eventually given birth to Shu Hai, her only child. Even as she’d grown sick over the years Xinyi made a point to protect her half-sister and the princess. And though her mother was lesser than Xinyi, Shu Hai’s current presence and influence in the Yao compound is clear as day—especially in the time Ling has been absent.

Or perhaps it’s just Xinyi Yao ensuring there’s no loose threads in her plan for Ling. She’d discussed with Ling over their morning meal the matter of Shu Hai touring through Yao territory through the past summer and fall, acting as a diplomat for Jiaodao and a lesser Yao royal in Ling’s place. He’d been impressed by the issues she’d been able to work through—disputes between merchants in different towns, flooding season, and even the last winter’s smaller-than-usual crop. She’d also hinted that she’d allowed Shu Hai to begin being courted by suitors.

“There’s the option of coming to the Imperial City, you know.” Her head snaps to attention.

“Do you really think someone like me could fit in there?” What she doesn’t say he understands; the court would eat her alive if it weren’t for the protection of Ling and the Lady Yao.

“You’ve done well to earn your place amongst the Yao family. It would do well to invite you to the Imperial Palace, would it not?”

She clasps her hands together and gazes right up at him. “I’d be more than happy and grateful to accompany you, my lord, if that is what you wish,” Shu Hai proclaims, bowing before him at the waist. Ling returns the same gesture.

Eventually she turns to gaze in wonder at the flowers, prodding and sniffing them every now and then. Ling returns to his reading and pulls out his notebook.

Mei, Bao, Xinyi. _Two peonies and a peacock._ His hand is thoughtful in its writing.

 _An ocean._ He looks at his cousin who’s fancied herself with the plum tree.

And then Lan Fan. _The orchid._

Surely if Lan Fan and Shu Hai will be coming along to the Imperial City there’s no doubt the General Yao will also be permanently moved to the capital as well—especially knowing Xinyi knew what she was doing by allowing him to court the Princess Shu Hai and at the same time win her affections.

From across the garden a servant rings a gong, snapping said princess from her place by the blooming azaleas. Glee spreads like light across her face.

“Shou!” Shu Hai gathers up her skirts and stares expectantly up at Ling, to which he rolls his eyes playfully and offers his arm to his cousin—not before he hides most of his readings under his table. He glances back at Lan Fan and she moves from her post to follow.

A hand waves her next to his side rather than his back; she still remains a step behind him, hiding her mouth in her cowl.

The General Yao marches into the Northern Heart gloriously. The Yao clan had made it a point to have their armies tour the borders of Yao territory once a year in spring for centuries now. Shou himself had come from a long line of Yao generals and he’d made himself happy to serve on the front lines to protect the Yao clan—especially in Prince Ling Yao’s faraway absence, when it would be high time for opposing clans to make moves in order to weaken the Yao—but also had a particular knack for combat. That is, they called him the Yao clan’s _beast_ for his ravenous appetite for fighting from even as a child, and even more so now as an adult for his stature and boisterous, loud, and quite _unrefined_ ways of life.

The Yao clan celebrates him for his passion to protect and serve. In that way, Shou supposes, he and Lan Fan are not all that different.

He sees the Prince’s watchdog before he sees the Prince himself, and that’s only because she’s making a point of it. From up above the steps and the roof of the entrance to the Northern Heart there’s the stroke of her silver _qi_ as she scouts the area. He sends a tickle of a _hello_ and waves up at her. Lan Fan smiles but ducks back down, no doubt to return to her charge’s side.

Just as quick as she’d fled the Yao prince appears at the gates. Shou takes a knee before jogging up the steps to the entrance. The sunlight makes the phoenixes on the gate dance.

“Well, Ling Yao, if it isn’t good to see your shifty face!” At his words Lan Fan scowls, Ling pouts, and Shu Hai only sighs, the three of them sending him into a howling fit of laughter.

 

* * *

 

 

Seated at the table again, now with the General Yao and a quiet Lan Fan, something warm and mischievous hanging in the air with Shou’s arrival.

The General Yao is a head taller than Ling with an old scar tracing down his left brow. His face is long but his features are gentle—rather deceiving of his wild nature—and his hair is always pulled back into a long ponytail, streaming down to his shoulders. He’s as strong as he looks and a formidable opponent, even for Ling and Lan Fan.

He’s a friend to them both all the same.

Shu Hai sits to his right with her hand but an inch from Shou’s. If she were to stretch her pinky their hands would touch. There’s clearly something sitting on her tongue that she’s itching to say, and Ling knows, and he thinks maybe even Lan Fan knows, but Shou Yao, the poor man, is blissful in his ignorance.

Lan Fan clears her throat. “So, Shou.” Ling relaxes and prepares himself for the exchange about to happen.

The man perks up, midway through a bite of an apple. He leans on his left hand. “Ah?”

“You’ll be coming to the Imperial City with us.”

Shou nearly chokes and Ling has to hide his snort in his sleeve. Shu Hai only hides behind her fan again.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean exactly what I said,” Lan Fan states matter-of-factly.

“Surely you must be speaking to my Lady Shu Hai— _ow_ ,” the princess pinches his hand and smiles behind her fan.

“No. I mean _you._ ”

Shou looks at Ling, his jaw hanging in surprise, and Ling only shrugs his shoulders and goes back to his reading. Then he turns to Lan Fan, who gives him a glare that could kill a man. Finally he looks at Shu Hai, giving her best impression of a lost kitten and staring up at him. He’s a whole head taller than her so she has no choice but to look upwards at him and it is _terribly cute_ —then he tears his face away before she can use that voice of hers to convince him otherwise.

“You expect me to up and _abandon_ my Shu—my _post_ here, Lan Fan? And just take off out of Yao-guo, impossibly far—”

“Lady Shu Hai will also be coming.”

The princess hides deeper behind her fan and looks away from him.

“When were you going to tell me this, Shu Hai?”

“I would have sent a messenger if I had known before this _afternoon_ ,” she says defensively, circling to face him with her best intense stare.

“Why are you going? Don’t you have plans to become the chief of the Yao clan?”

Her face falls rather solemnly.

“I don’t think that’ll be possible, Shou. I’m not enough of pure blood to be considered in the running for it, especially with how sickly mother is as of late. No matter what I won’t be seen as strong or capable enough here,” then Ling smiles reassuringly and turns to the General Yao.

“I’ll need you for defensive measures in the capital anyways,” the bodyguard asserts, moving her hand—the automail one—into the sunlight, letting the rays fall on the freshly polished metal and subsequently grabbing Shou’s eye, his eyebrows flying upwards. “I cannot guard the Young Lord alone anymore, especially with so many eyes watching and so many faces we know we cannot trust.”

Shou makes a little _hmph_ sound but otherwise settles.

“What happened to your arm?”

Shu Hai sits up straighter, clearly as curious as Shou. Ling visibly stiffens.

“I did my duty in Amestris. When it came time I sacrificed part of myself in order to save the Young Lord’s life.”

The general shifts.

“Are you prepared to do the same, Shou Yao?” Lan Fan questions after a moment, squinting at the man.

The sound that comes mangled from his throat is comparable to a grumpy bear. “Without hesitation. You know that, Lan Fan.” Shu Hai’s pats his hand in comfort. He nudges her gently.

“I’ll do my best.”

“That you will, General Yao.” Lan Fan flares up, focusing her glare at the general as he looks rather sheepishly between Ling and Shu Hai.

Ling hides another chuckle behind his sleeve.

 

* * *

 

 

The morning the Yao clan members leave for the Imperial City it is misty; there’s voices of wind in the trees but no movement and the song it sings is that of smoke signals. The Yao Phoenix will stir and sweep the ashes from the fire pit to begin again. Though the compound rises as one at dawn it feels frozen in time, as if the world has swallowed itself into a chrysalis to later crawl forth as something glorious and new and still familiar. There’s an eerie thing, something suspenseful, hanging on every door frame, lingering in every whisper of silk across the wooden floorboards, clinging to the many crates and boxes of things the clan will take with them in the caravan on the trip to the Imperial Palace.

Lan Fan double, triple checks the surrounding area of the Northern Heart with her _qi_ to reassure herself that the mist isn’t an omen or a warning of sorts. Or, even worse, a cover. But nothing betrays the fog’s intentions. It sits, curls, moves slow and still unpredictable.

Ling Yao comes to her first after waking, meets her just outside the door to his room. Something pensive pulls at the lines of his face. He studies her face for a moment, eyes flitting to hers to focus on her soft, comely stare. Lan Fan’s eyes always seem to glitter as if they are wet and burn like coals. His throat swallows something heavy—if she notices she brushes it off, and she goes lax, settling there next to him and taking in the gray quiet of the morning between them—and then his stomach tugs at something, and Ling honestly cannot tell if he’s trying to spit words out or trying to seize hold of them before they empty him of any words left, because Lan Fan has that habit, she steals words from him—

She must have felt his _qi_ writhing. (Or, he thinks, maybe she just knows that troubled look of his too well, knows it like a reflection of her own.)

As her hand—her flesh hand, he realizes—leaves her side and the thumb descends onto his skin he feels the pulse of blood inside him slow, the ground come to rest underneath him again. Lan Fan has that habit, too, of balancing him in her own silent way.

 _Anything for you,_ her eyes yearn for him, and there are things she can’t say but those coals in her eyes gleam with newborn fire, _anything._

Her touch—hardly a touch at all, a stroke, a feathering of her unspoken words—slowly leaves him longing, leaves Ling Yao _aching_ something awful, more than when Greed was torn from his soul, more than when he’d accepted the monster into his body.

His hand clasps hers and their fingers mesh together.

Something dawns on him then. Yes, she would do anything for him, but there are things she cannot bring herself to do or claim or dare to _ask_ from him. That burning buried under Lan Fan’s skin, the wants and desires, they must be his own, too, if they were to one day become a reality.

They rise and keep moving. (Desires are pushed down, but not entirely stifled.)

Shu Hai lies in her bed until there is no time for her to lie there anymore. The light pouring in through the window is calming, gives her time to think, to mull over the decision of following Ling into the Imperial City and into the palace at its center. She traces the blue-gray lines the light leaves in the mats of the floor as her hair is braided, swept up, and pinned entirely away from her face by a young servant girl, and thinks of how her life will change and still be the same while the girl threads silver ornaments in between the braids that clink like a disorderly melody. Another girl dresses her into a gray hanfu overlaid with dark blue silk and acutely detailed white flowers threaded into the fabric. Silver and pearls hang from her ears. Thoughts of the Xingese people swarm her head, of how she will help them, Ling, herself, and help Shou.

The servants girls are dismissed and when she opens the door for herself a minute later Shou is already there waiting for her. Without asking, and before she can inquire of his being there so early, he stalks into her room (leaving her gawking rather unladylike) and slides the door closed.

“Is this really what you want to do, Shu Hai?”

Her stare is puzzled. “What?”

“This—the Imperial Palace, the royal nonsense—is this what you want?”

The princess rubs the fabric of her gown between her fingers, staring down at the ground and sighing. Without looking at him she bites her lip and turns her body away.

“What I want is to aid the Xingese people, Shou. Not just the Yao clan.”

He takes a step closer.

“You’ve been helping only the Yao all these months.”

“To help Ling ascend to the throne, so that he might help all of Xing.”

Shou scoffs. “You would make yourself a puppet of the prince’s?”

Shu Hai glares up at him. “Don’t speak treason.”

“It isn’t treason. I’m asking what _you_ want from this, not just for the people of Xing or of Yao-guo or Ling or Lan Fan. _You._ ”

“I said I want to help the Xingese people,” she reiterates, spitting the words out at him irritably.

“And you can’t do that from here in Jiaodao?”

“ _No._ You know that as well as I do, Shou. The whole of Xing… is not just Yao-guo, as much as it feels that way sometimes. You ought to know,” and then she relents, allowing her shoulders to fall.

He sighs but otherwise allows his frustrations to retreat.

“You could be in danger there, you know,” he responds after a while, tension unwinding between them.

“I know,” the princess says quietly, searching his face curiously. “But that’s what you’re here for, Shou.”

 _Of course_ she has to smile that dazzling smile, eyes shimmering.

“And what if I’m not there to defend you?”

“You will be.”

He sweeps her into a brief embrace before bowing before her and offering his arm.

“It won’t be good for you to be seen alone in your room with a man so early in the morning,” he mumbles.

“And who’s fault is that?”

“Yours for being so politically reckless, and mine for having to come talk some sense into you, Lady Shu Hai.”

They leave the room, hushed, into the unabated and unmoving silence of the early morning.

Mei Chang, dressed in lavender long robes and her braids hanging down about her shoulders, is the first real knowledge of passage of time in the halls of the Northern Heart. With Bao Chang at her heels she drags Ling and Lan Fan to breakfast in a swirl of purple—the bodyguard politely declines, having already eaten, and so she follows them to the western dining room (the eastern saved for higher and more important occasions, almost always teas and dinners) and waits outside.

Xinyi Yao happens upon her there (or so she says, but Lan Fan is never quite sure with the striking glint of her blue-black eyes) and as the bodyguard bows the woman smiles something acidic.

“Might I steal you away for a moment, blossom?”

“Of course, my lady,” and without hesitation she follows Xinyi down the hall, into the garden to the southern wing of the palace. For Lan Fan it’s like being welcomed into a lioness’s den; she keeps her _qi_ tethered to Ling as she walks away. He is safe.

The Lady Yao is a river of dark red and green silks as she settles onto a bench, her manicured hands folded into her lap. She welcomes Lan Fan next to her and the smile she gives her now is genuine. If Ling’s _qi_ is like that of sunlight, Xinyi’s _qi_ is like that of an entire sun—no, a brighter star, Lan Fan tells herself. Intense, and sometimes too warm, but shining wonderfully in a sea of darkness.

“Do you trust me, Lan Fan?” Xinyi asks, turning to the bodyguard. Surprised and confused, Lan Fan stares wide-eyed at the woman, whose eyes are restless. Her rouged lips are pursed as if she might blurt out something at any second. It unnerves Lan Fan.

“Of course my lady. Why would I not?”

The tips of the Lady Yao’s fingers are pointed, surely sharp enough to be claws, painted white and gold. Her pretty hand comes to rest upon Lan Fan’s metal one.

“And do you fear me, Lan Fan?”

She hesitates. There is honesty or there is the lie—and truly, she fears the lie more than the honest answer.

“Yes.”

“I see.”

Lan Fan hangs her head and squeezes her eyes shut, bracing herself for the fire that will surely come from Lady Xinyi’s mouth at any moment, but it never does.

Xinyi just sits there, looking as if she’s upset with herself.

“I… you know I want to protect my son more than anything.”

“As do I, my lady,” Lan Fan states.

The woman nods. “I trust you to care for my son in ways that I can’t—but I want you to know, blossom, if there were anything you could need—or even _want_ for _yourself_ ,” the bodyguard shoots upwards in surprise, “You could trust me—and I would provide to you as you have provided to my son.”

“Thank you, my lady.” She means it.

A playful twinkle crosses her eyes. “When we are alone, dear Lan Fan, you may call me Xinyi.”

Her words sound like that of Ling’s himself, so much so she can feel his voice crawling up her spine with that same permittance of familiarity that he, too, has always allowed. _Always has, always will,_  Lan Fan thinks to herself.

That pretty hand comes to rest on Lan Fan’s metal shoulder.

“What happened to your arm?” Xinyi asks, hushed, her tone serious.

Lips pursing she looks right at the woman,

“The Führer King of Amestris… struck a blow that I could not fully fend off. My lord refused to abandon me, but I could not jeopardize his life—so I,” she grips her arm, the stump underneath the automail beginning to throb, “severed my arm in order to out-maneuver the enemy.”

“You say my son refused to leave your side?”

“Yes,” she answers quietly.

“A man fit to be the ruler of Xing, indeed.” Xinyi states, standing up and folding her hands inside the sleeves of her robes.

“My lady?”

“Nothing, Lan Fan.” Immediately she purses her lips shut lest she speak out of turn. “Come. We have an Imperial City which needs tending to.”

They walk, Lan Fan two steps behind Xinyi and one step to her left. She’s right. As she leashes her _qi_ around Ling she feels safe, warm.

She wonders of what the future in the Imperial Palace will bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you enjoy! i'll post chapter 3 in a few days since it's already completed. next saturday i leave for a music festival in greece so i'll take a little break from posting. chapter 4 is where it starts getting more spicy and ch 3 will bring some more mutual pining. we love that for them! anyways as usual pls be nice and gentle


	3. Shadows and the Light Between Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ascending Emperor becomes His Highness the Sun Ruler of Xing, the Great Phoenix Emperor Ling Yao. Ling realizes he is but a tender fool for his bodyguard; Lan Fan wants and cannot have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> characters that appear here are...
> 
> Ling Yao - All hail His Royal Majesty Highness Imperial Ruler King Emperor... blah blah blah. You know him.  
> Lan Fan - The bodyguard of His Royal Majesty Highness Imperial Ruler King Emperor.  
> Mei Chang - The self-appointed teacher (friend) of Alphonse Elric.  
> Alphonse Elric - Student (and crush) of Mei Chang. Shou likes him.  
> Shou Yao - General of the Yao clan. Likes his alcohol.  
> Shu Hai Yao - Lesser princess of the Yao clan.  
> Xinyi Yao - Her Royal Majesty Highness Imperial Empress Dowager and also fretful mother of Ling Yao.  
> Huang & Zhao clan - New clans introduced this chapter that are the first clans to stay at court under Ling's rule.  
> Wu Song - Lord of the Sun Hall. Kind of Ling's babysitter/manager.
> 
> OST for this chapter - Bruch Violin concerto through Venus (Planets Suite): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Blt7Rp4TJGo&list=PLjYxCbfu_66zBvDkU6ABoPbbjW7nvQR1D&index=23&t=0s

_Coronation Day, Summer of 1917_

There is nothing that can calm or slow Lan Fan’s nerves. The amount of excitement in the air is both exhilarating and suffocating; even the servants of the Imperial Palace are alight with joy with how they’ve come to love Ling Yao, the Ascending Emperor, and there’s men and women everywhere in attendance—royals of all kinds, lower and higher clans, royal cousins, clan chiefs, skittish royal children, princesses that could become the wives of the Emperor. All the clans are in attendance and Lan Fan, feeling smug and letting a bit of her pride take over, remarks to herself that she’s the strongest of the bodyguards present. Lowering the curtain behind the throne she turns back to her master who’s busied himself with staring at her, clearly amused.

Lan Fan clears her throat. “Just checking the crowd, Your Majesty.”

“As you should,” Ling replies with a laugh, hands meeting to rest within the confines of his sleeves.

He’s dressed in imperial red, the robes of scarlet hanging beautifully from his body. The Yao Phoenixes—the same from the gates of Jiaodao—have been stitched into the front of the fabric with gold. Lan Fan wonders if they’ve been enhanced with alkahestry with how they shimmer in the lowlight. The lapels and trims of his robe are so black that they seem to absorb no light at all. Even Lan Fan has never seen him dressed so regal; she wonders how much he’s suffering right now with half his hair pulled back (up into a topknot with an ornate golden hairpiece resembling flames, she notices), tight and away from his face. The other half spills down his back.

Suddenly it is clear how much he’s grown since they’ve left Amestris. His shoulders are broader and his jaw more clearly defined. He isn’t the same boy-prince Lan Fan grew up protecting, and yet, with that little glint in his eyes, he is different and the same.

Something thumps heavily against the middle of her chest. Ling comes to her side silently—they’re awaiting the arrival of the Ascending Empress Dowager—and she realizes she has to tilt her head upwards just slightly to talk to him. It had not always been that way; when they were children Lan Fan was the taller of the two, and quite proud of it sometimes, but now he stands over her. His _qi_ , always so bright and warm, rolls off of him like waves, all joy and sunlight. She stretches her senses to meet his _qi_ with a fickle wave and smiles to herself.

The day’s occasion require that Lan Fan wear all black alongside the Yao clan members, each one with the Phoenix stitched into their backs in matching gold. Somehow she feels more connected to Ling than ever, despite knowing their familiarity will be harder to find now within the palace walls and his status as Emperor. Still, that golden brand of a bowing bird on her back, the one on all the backs of the Yao clan members—coupling with the rising Yao Phoenix on his—makes something impossibly warm well up within her.

Though by technicality she isn’t a Yao by birthright she _belongs_ , and that is what matters to her right now.

“You’ve done it.” She speaks after a while of silence, folding her hands in front of her. Her robes feel thick; she misses her usual uniform. Silently, to herself, she counts off the weapons she has stashed in her choice of dress. There’s plenty, but still, she must be extra careful this evening.

“It wouldn’t have been possible without you,” he says coyly, grinning all-knowing at himself.

“Don’t say such foolish things,” she retorts. A smile still tugs at her mouth. A hand brushes imaginary dirt off her armor and her pauldrons.

Xinyi arrives then, in the same red, black, and gold as her son. She bows to Ling and he kisses the top of her hand. To Lan Fan she leans her head to the side in hello before taking his open arm. Truly, the bodyguard wonders if they are two halves of the same entity. Or perhaps Xinyi had reproduced without the help of the previous Emperor entirely.

The thought almost strikes a wide smile across her face. She trains her eyes onto her two charges to keep focused, hand fiddling with a freshly-sharpened (and sheathed) kunai tucked into her sleeve.

A gong signals their arrival into the expanse of the Hall of the Sun, Ling’s future throne room. Each Emperor would take on one of the twelve elements for their reign; most common was the Dragon, Fire, and the Mountain. Ling chose the Sun for its burning glory and its own immortality, resembling the phoenix. Everyone in the hall collectively hushes, bowing deeply before the Ascending Emperor—Xinyi and Lan Fan too, Xinyi at his side and Lan Fan right before him. No one else can see it but he shuffles his feet awkwardly underneath his robes; she sympathizes and when she stands he shoots her a relieved look. Xinyi latches right back onto his arm, her fine hands (nails painted scarlet, too, Lan Fan observes) rested neatly in the crook of his elbow.

Her eyes are glittering blue black, lips ruby red and pulled into a viper smile. Anyone privy to court matters or the ways of Xinyi Yao would know that smile; most in attendance, despite knowing Xinyi Yao’s name well, are oblivious.

Shou appears from the crowd to come to Lan Fan’s side. He nudges her and she shoots him a scowl that would scare even Ling. Shrugging he follows Ling alongside her up the steps to the Sun Throne, where a group of priests await to officially crown him Emperor.

Everything Lan Fan has fought for—every drop of sweat, of her tears, and every bit of blood shed for her master—has finally, _finally_ come to culminate right here in front of her. He bows his head to the priests, smiling dutifully, and they lower their heads in return. Lan Fan and Shou drop to one knee, leaning on one fist each, watching carefully and keeping alert.

Lan Fan hasn’t abandoned worry entirely, but right now she’s overwhelmed with joy.

The Phoenix crest on Ling’s back glimmers. Something settles in her gut right then, thick and swirling and _growing._ She doesn’t know what to call it—be it admiration, pride, or some feeling for her master she dare not give name to—but it swells there, and she’s sure he can feel it in her _qi._ It’s impossible to stifle and for once there’s no need to. There’s hope and light and she feels in her veins that he truly loves the people of Xing. He will bear every burden and make his people happy and proud. There’s no doubt in her mind, right there in her kneeled position, and she will always do anything to protect him, to help him in any way she can to serve the people of Xing. It is beyond duty, beyond loyalty, beyond any kind of piety.

The last of the priests recites his blessings to Ling, and every person in the hall, no matter their status, all bow to their new Crowned Emperor, Ling Yao: the Firebird, the Sun Ruler, the Great Phoenix Emperor. She can’t imagine anyone else deserving of her devotion. There is no other soul she could—or ever _would_ —follow. Only the Twelfth Prince, only the Phoenix of Xing.

Only Ling Yao.

 

* * *

 

There’s much fanfare and celebration after he has been crowned. Everyone is dancing, drinking, feasting, and the mood is light, airy, and filled with feelings joyous and proud. There’s the slight bit of jealousy from some royals in the room, yet still they’re civil, and they all have respect for Ling.

“What’s a little Yao princess doing all by herself?”

Shu Hai spins around at the sound of Shou’s voice, smiling wide. He picks her up, swings her around, then gently sets her down, and she has to hold tightly to her glass of Amestrian champagne, a gift from a certain blonde friend of Mei Chang’s—or rather, her new alkahestry student, as she so put it in a flustered fit. There’s laughter all around and she couldn’t care for propriety. Really it seems none of the royals care right now for all of the festivities. Still she hides behind her fan shyly, taking his arm while smiling.

Mei approaches them with her friend— _student_ , Shu Hai reminds herself—and he bows, speaking in accented Xingese. He looks a little out of place in the Xingese long robes. Shu Hai shares a look with Shou, who’s equally as impressed with his knowledge of the language, and they both nod their heads in greeting.

“I’m Alphonse Elric. I made friends with the Emperor in Amestris.”

Shou crosses his arms. “Friends?”

The blonde man shoots a worried look at Mei. Shu Hai dips behind her fan to conceal the laughter threatening to come from her throat. Mei and the little bearcat throw daggers with their eyes at Shou.

“I’m joking, Elric,” he then throws an arm around the man, chuckling heartily.

From across the room Ling watches warmly upon his throne, his mother sitting to his left. Lan Fan has gone to scout the perimeter with a few other guards; she’ll be back shortly.

For now the Lord of the Sun Hall, Wu Song, has begun introducing the various members of the court. It is tradition for various clan members of the five districts of the Imperial City to stay at court during the first few years of the Emperor’s reign; most often, though, the eligible princesses from each clan end up becoming the first few wives of the Emperor.

Ling shifts uncomfortably at the thought. Xinyi sits up straighter, her dagger-like nails resting in her lap that still, somehow, seem inviting.

The Zhaos are the first to step forward.

“These ones are honored to bask in the presence of the Great Phoenix Emperor,” the Lady Yin Zhao drawls. Her husband fails miserably at hiding his arrogance. (Or, perhaps, it’s simply jealousy.) Her two daughters bow, and one is considerably younger and more immature than the other. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen. He knows these two; there’s Chun He Zhao, the eldest princess, and Jin, the younger one. Xinyi’s eyes light up when they settle on Chun He, dressed wonderfully in Zhao blue and gold.

“My my, how good it is to see you, Yin Zhao. It’s been ages,” Xinyi expresses, running one hand in her hair before tossing it over her shoulder.

“Likewise, Your Majesty Empress Dowager,” and she rises then, turning away with a glint in her eyes. Chun He and Jin either realize and opt to ignore their exchange or don’t know at all what had just occurred. _No,_ Ling thinks to himself. Chun He _definitely_ catches it. She smiles up at him just like her own mother, and exposes the back of her neck to him when she walks away with her family.

 _A clever_ and _determined one,_ he muses.

The Huangs are introduced next, princes much different in nature from the other. Xie is a young boy, barely fourteen, looking up at Ling with stars in his eyes. It warms him. The other prince is Li, a little younger than Ling. They’re in Huang green, a silky olive color, and the admiration in their eyes is unmistakable. He looks forward to having them at court.

The rest of the clans are introduced one by one, Wu Song seeming to never grow tired of speaking every syllable of their names. It’s an incredible feat, really. When Mei Chang is introduced, all in her lonesome, she shoots the newly crowned Emperor a mischievous look and he has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing in a very undignified manner. Xiao Mei bows her little head too. Xinyi has to open her fan to hide her wide smile.

Finally, when the last of the clans are introduced, Ling stands with a glass of champagne raised. Lan Fan returns from her rounds with Shou, who’s already snatched a glass of the stuff from a surprised servant boy.

“Everything I have done, and everything I will continue to do, I do it for the people of Xing,” Ling begins, looking down into the crystallized glass. “I will never stop giving everything I have for my people. Your suffering will always be my suffering. I am honored to carry the burden of every distraught citizen of Xing until you all may prosper.

“Your blood will always be my blood, and my blood will always be yours,” he looks directly at Lan Fan now, and when he doesn’t pull his gaze away she looks down at her robes, fiddling with the silk stubbornly. “To everyone in Xing, we smile upon a new light, a new day, a new era for the Great Empire. For Xing!” He shouts, smiling widely.

“For Xing!” The people echo, cheering and whooping loudly. The festivities resume, even more rambunctious now. The doors open to both of the gardens to the East and West of the Sun Hall; Ling relaxes some, offering his arm to his mother and tilting his head in question.

“An evening stroll for the Empress Dowager?”

“That would be exquisite, I believe.”

 

* * *

 

The Emperor and his mother walk the perimeter of the Center of the palace, a small labyrinth constructed during the reign of the Song’s Moon Ruler. She’d been one of the few women to rule as Empress in Xing before the Fifty Wives system had been introduced, and in her honor a temple stood at the end of the labyrinth. There were rumors that she took various women and princesses there when she seduced them and did not want to be found. Ling had also read of her affair with a lesser attendant; though that was also a widespread rumor at the time, he did not doubt it. There were always rumors of Emperors and Empresses sleeping with those out of their class, even some with the same sex, no matter if they were true or not.

Ling has already prepared himself for if (or rather _when_ ) the rumors begin about Lan Fan. He feels her faint flicker of _qi_ at the entrance to the labyrinth. She’s keeping watch from a distance to give them privacy.

“You’re thinking deeply,” Xinyi speaks, looking up at her son. He chuckles in response, sighing to himself. “You always make that face when you’re deep in thought. Right there between your eyebrows, your forehead creases, and your mouth gets tight,” she hums, a hand coming up to stroke his face with her thumb. “What troubles you, Your Majesty?”

“Classism.” He states plainly, looking down at her. Her eyes widen in surprise. “It’s no secret that the gap between classes has been rising for ages now. Not everyone prospers as the Yao have; there are starving children right here in the Imperial City. Royal officials look down upon the poverty-stricken that so gratefully serve them for the littlest amount of _qian_ in return. That’s the first thing that needs to be fixed in this country.”

“And you’ve been thinking of how you might do that,” Xinyi adds. It isn’t a question.

“Yes.”

The Empress Dowager nods to herself.

“I want to open trade routes to Amestris first, and the Führer of Amestris has already begun the construction of a transnational railroad to ease that process. There’ll be stops in the rebuilding country of Ishval to assist their economy with trading posts, and one in Xerxes, where we might be able to harvest jewels and other such artifacts that will attract visitors,” Xinyi cocks her head, curious, but continues to listen. “I also want to make connections to Aerugo now that Amestris has signed peace treaties with them. Tensions are still too high between Drachma and Amestris to ally ourselves with them, so hopefully by pressure Drachma will make good with the Amestrians. We can’t count on that though.”

“You wish to open Xingese borders to the outsiders?”

“Indeed. It’s time we share the glory of Xing, but it’s also high time Xing catches up with the rest of the world.”

“Forgive me if I speak out of turn, my son, but some of the clans might not take too kindly to that.”

“I also plan to unify the clans under one Empress, not fifty wives.”

“My, you’re ambitious,” Xinyi says, a wicked smile pulling at her lips. Her sharp fingers drum along his sleeves. There’s not a single pull in the fabric. “Won’t that cause more in-fighting? I implore you to not allow that kind of violence between the clans anymore.”

He pats her shoulder. “Don’t fret, mother. This marriage will be one that defies tradition and unites the clans all the same. I’ll be sure to choose my wife very wisely.”

“I trust your judgment, my dear. Your plans are mine, and mine are yours,” Xinyi pledges, bowing before him.

“Come. Let us return to the party.”

Xinyi nods and follows in sync with the rhythm of Ling’s steps.

 

* * *

 

After some time dancing and getting stuffy in his robes, it takes quite a while for Ling to snatch his bodyguard away from the celebrations. What it took to lure her away from her post were _basi_ sweet potatoes; Lan Fan salivated at the thought of the things, sweet sugar like resembling silk when the things were pulled apart. They’d been her favorite for some time and Amestrian yams just couldn’t compare. Even then, the things were rare in the capital, and so very hard to come by, especially for someone of her status. (Ling had the _basi_ sweet potatoes made just for her, but he wouldn’t ruin the surprise by saying it out loud.)

She’d been out on watch again with Shou Yao when he’d left to go find her. Shou reported back to the Emperor and, noticing the gaze that he was practically _oozing_ at Lan Fan he’d left, mumbling something about making sure Mei Chang didn’t drink too much champagne.

So Ling Yao took to the Garden of the Three Stars with her, all sorts of other desserts stashed up his sleeve.

“ _Young Lord_ ,” she’d scolded, using his old title purely from nostalgia. He threw his head back for a laugh at that.

In between bites of his milky Aerugan dessert (Alphonse had called it _tres leches_ ) he steals looks at her, munching happily on her _basi digua._ Her hair is longer now, tied at her shoulders and swimming down her back. And those misty eyes have darkened over the years; she’d taken her duties more seriously, entertaining less and less of his shenanigans, but even now with her _basi digua_ and running away from the party with him she’s still the same girl he’d first met as a child, clinging to Fu’s pant leg. Different and the same, new and still so familiar. Lan Fan’s cheeks still grow rosy when she’s embarrassed. She’d abandoned her mask most days now; weeks ago she’d told him how it didn’t feel right to not have it on without her grandfather’s matching one.

Ling almost pities himself for how he blindly pines over the woman. Pities himself for how he cannot say these things out loud, how she silently and very much _accidentally_ enchants him in the lowlight, metal arm and all. There is no woman at court that could compare in loyalty and beauty as Lan Fan and her sacrifices, sorrowful as they are.

“Your Majesty?” He’s been staring too long.

“You have something on your face,” he says immediately, snickering to himself. Before she can wipe it away with the back of her metal hand he swipes his thumb over his tongue and wipes it away from her cheek. If Greed were still within him he’d have told him to lick it off himself. But that was Greed, and he is Ling Yao, Emperor of Xing; it wouldn’t be right to treat Lan Fan like she were meant to entertain him as a possession and not her own human self.

Nevertheless her face flushes, competing with the bright red of his robe.

_Different and the same._

“ _Your Majesty_ ,” she complains, and now she doesn’t have a cowl or mask or hood to hide behind by habit. “Refrain from doing that, please.” Ling hums anyways. She hides in her shoulder instead, leans away from him, too.

They sit there for a long while, looking up at the Three Stars the garden is named for. The legends in Xerxes speak of the Three Stars, Lan Fan recalls—more so the other stars connected to them, forming the shape of a bear. A smaller set of three stars mirrors it just across the sky. She thinks of things that come in twos: bears in the sky, _yin_ and _yang_ as the symbols on hers and Fu’s masks, the homunculus and her master sharing the same body, the phoenixes on the front of Ling’s robes and the so-faraway gates of the Northern Heart in Jiaodao. She thinks of how where Ling goes she will always follow.

The thought is immediately repressed, shoved away in some part of her she’s too horrified to bear to look at. Her, Ling, and her grandfather had always been three—and yet now they are only two. It tugs at her heart heavily.

Still, she gazes at him, unabashedly now that they are alone.

“Are there things that you want in this world, Lan Fan?” The bodyguard snorts. He asks this as if he is interested in making her desires reality.

He turns to look at her then, quite serious, his lips pulled into a pensive frown. The bodyguard considers his question carefully. Certainly she’d wanted _basi digua_ , and she yearned for her Grandfather, her only remaining family, most days and deep in the night when she can’t sleep. But there’s no bringing him back. She doesn’t want her arm back. That was a sacrifice she did not want to and _would not_ take back. Lan Fan wants the safety of the Yao family, to polish her arm, to train with her master, to have another long bath in the Chang residence, to have roasted duck kebabs, she most definitely _wants._

Where he’d touched her feels strange, as if she were to look down his hand would still be there. Truthfully, she wants for Ling, wants that same touch again. But it cannot be said aloud. Not of her free will.

“I want roasted duck,” she says finally, and he blinks in surprise before chuckling loudly, patting her shoulder. His chest heaves; yes, she wants his happiness, always, _always._ There was nothing she would not do to preserve that smile. More serious now she looks towards him, something bittersweet pulling at her mouth. “There are things… that should not be spoken aloud. Worry of your own desires, my lord.”

Curiously he looks at her, but doesn’t push any further, preferring to stand and offer a hand to help her to her feet. She inspects it, her hand hesitant, before offering her right hand to him. With his hand in hers, her chest feels as if it might cave in, might break in two and have all sorts of weighty things come pouring out. She tries to say something, anything to protest, but nothing comes out. Ling just beams at her.

“Let’s get you that roasted duck,” he says. His hand slips from hers but the feeling in her chest does not leave. It seems to linger there as if it were waiting to come out for years. _How long has it been this way?_ She wonders, lips pursed. There was no beginning to it and no visible end.

 _There is no speaking it aloud_ , Lan Fan reminds herself.

His steps are quiet. She walks at his side upon his request, thinking of nothing at all and everything all at once. The stump of her arm aches; a storm must be brewing.

When Ling looks at her in the lowlight there’s the column of her throat, the slip of hair as she pulls it loose to tie it back again—tighter this time. Under her robe there’s the whine and creak of her automail arm, a glint of light over her metal-studded knuckles. Always the warrior Lan Fan she is, and almost never the woman Lan Fan. Not by Xingese definition, that is. He wonders silently now how she will bloom into both, how one day, perhaps, Lan Fan will marry someone all her own, and be wed right within the palace walls—

He’s suddenly struck by a feeling he has not had since Amestris. It rears its head, hissing, a spineless and devilish thing saying _mine, mine, mine._ It’s jealousy, he realizes. Ling cannot bear the thing and yet he can’t stand the thought of losing her to someone else.

Lan Fan is clueless, walking with her head pointed down towards the floorboards. The thing inside him, the thing that feels like an ever so small piece of _Greed_ , dies down once he looks at her again. He almost feels guilty for having thought so possessively over her, as if she had to diminish her loyalty to him in order to be happy.

 _A foolish man indeed,_ he thinks to himself. _Yet as ambitious as ever._ After that he wonders—deep in the night, too, when the celebrations have ended and the sun will rise soon, he wonders—of the one subject of Xing he carries the deepest admiration for.

How, at her command, he’d give anything to make her happy. Wage wars and order all the _basi digua_ in the world for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some terms...
> 
> qian - the term i'll be using for currency in this story.  
> basi digua - one of lan fan's favorite foods. "pull-silk" sweet potatoes in english.
> 
>  
> 
> as always i hope you've enjoyed. if you like this story, please give kudos, leave a review, follow it, or consider donating to my paypal to keep me motivated! any one of those is highly appreciated, especially a little review of things you like so far!


	4. Phoenix's Bolero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New enemies, allies, and those with personal intentions begin to make themselves known. The Emperor and his bodyguard struggle within the boundaries of the relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey everyone! long time no see! i got back from greece a few weeks ago and so i've mostly been at home with my parents. chapter 4 wasn't able to be beta'd by anyone else but i hope it's good nonetheless!
> 
> i'm getting my wisdom teeth removed in the morning so i'll go back and edit any typos later this week. for some reason when you insert rich text to ao3 it puts spaces between italicized words and punctuation marks, and i'm too tired to fix them right now. anyways, here's the characters that appear.
> 
> Ling Yao - Current Emperor of Xing.  
> Lady Yin Zhao - A cunning and wise woman of high standing within the Zhao clan.  
> Wu Song - Ling Yao's closest advisor/manager/babysitter.  
> Lan Fan - Warrior girl and bodyguard all rolled into one.  
> Shu Hai Yao - A lesser princess of the Yao clan that is incredibly adorable.  
> Shou Yao - The General of the Yao clan, now the highest ranking general in all of Xing.  
> Mei Chang - Princess of the Chang clan.  
> Alphonse Elric - The "student" of Mei Chang.  
> Xie Huang - One of the Huang princes residing at court. Equally as adorable as Shu Hai Yao.
> 
> hope you enjoy!
> 
> edit on 8/16: i forgot to add OSTs in the chapter notes so here's a link to the OST playlist! this chapter is pagi (morning) by belle chen up until vocalise by rachmaninoff. https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLjYxCbfu_66zBvDkU6ABoPbbjW7nvQR1D

_Spring 1918_

The first few months of the Sun Ruler’s reign are uneventful. It is all about tact; Ling Yao has yet to reveal much of his plans of reconstructing Xing from the ground up—everything so far has been the underlay of his work, just the very beginning. He does not want to rush the process nor keep it from discouraging various territories from aiding him. A few weeks ago one of his financial advisors had been sent to the East to begin the construction of official trade routes and the addition of new trading posts along the roads to smaller cities to help smaller towns fare for themselves in the expanding markets of Xing, and shortly after that he began corresponding with the Western Regions Hao and Mu—to both make good relations and to discuss the building of the railroad and its very first station in Xing.

The Western peoples are easygoing and their economies rely on agriculture—he does not want to displace or upset them by sticking a railroad right smack in their ways of life. They’re small peoples and he certainly won’t begin his reign by ignoring them or, in cases of previous Emperors, looking down upon them with disdain. If he must, he’ll find ways around them—but so far, it seems they are open to the idea.

Ling’s forehead wrinkles. He looks down at the small stack of papers sitting at his table, then to Wu Song, who sips his tea quietly from across him. Wu’s eyebrows raise up in recognition, but Ling only smiles nonchalantly and looks back at his work.

If it weren’t so important he’d bother Lan Fan, who’s standing with her arms folded by the door. However, if the words on the paper don’t glare at him until he gets to work, _she_ absolutely will.

Sometimes her work ethic is highly inconvenient.

There’s a knock on the door that saves him from his torment. An escort with the Lady Yin Zhao bows her head and speaks softly. “If His Majesty would allow it, Lady Yin Zhao requests an audience with the Emperor.”

“Permission granted,” he says plainly, waving the girl away. The Lady Zhao bows her head, wearing a polite smile. Ling can’t tell if it’s a mask or not, although she hasn’t harbored any ill will in her short time at court, so he returns the favor and invites her to sit.

“Good afternoon, Your Majesty,” she hums.

“And to you as well. How do you find the palace, Lady Zhao?”

“Quaint, refined, and always so exciting.”

“Ah, good. I’m adjusting as well as I can to the life of an Emperor.” A giggle escapes her throat. “And how are you finding the spring this year?”

“I find it very well. I do think the lilies are the most lovely they’ve been in all my time here at court.”

Ling recalls that the crest of the Zhao family is the white lily, grinning widely. “I trust it is the presence of the Lady Zhao and her beautiful daughters that they are so lovely this year.”

She reaches to pour herself a cup of tea and breathes out a laugh. Ling observes that her nails are lacquered in blue and goldleaf. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Your Highness.”

“Is it flattery if it’s true?” Ling tilts his head towards her. Wu Song quietly leaves the room. He’ll be back—his scrolls are still on the table.

“I suppose you might have a point,” she sets the pot of tea down and looks at him curiously.

“Might I ask why you’ve requested a private audience with the Emperor?”

“Your reign has certainly been more exciting than that of the previous Emperor’s.”

His tone becomes serious. “If you’ve come to discuss my plans for the Empire, Lady Zhao, I’m afraid I do not have much I wish to say right now.” As serene as the Lady Zhao is he does not trust her quite yet—and surely not as much as she seems to think.

The polite smile she’s wearing does, in fact, appear to be a mask. Her lips part, close, then part once more after she’s found the words she’s looking for. “Pardon my impudence, Your Highness. What I meant to request is that the Emperor seek my aid should he ever need it. You have been doing much within the economic and marketing realm of Xing, but your necessary political relations with other clans seem to be… lacking.”

There is no denying she has a point. He’s been a bit of a recluse so far in comparison to the last Emperor—not without reason. Then again, the Lady Zhao has everything to gain by having a hand in his political sphere, and really, befriending one of the most powerful clans in Xing isn’t such a bad idea. There’s simply the matter of the Zhao princesses being thrown into the mix—they are not one but _two_ pawns to be used by Yin Zhao in her political game. He considers the matter thoughtfully. Though the intentions of the Zhao clan have always meant well, they have also always kept their personal interests at heart. Which means that despite Yin Zhao wishing to do right by the Xingese people, she won’t do so unless the Zhao get to stay in power.

Best to remain on her good terms and play along—for now.

“Don’t fret. You’re certainly right, Lady Zhao. Perhaps a private gathering of the clans is in order?”

“The Zhao residence would be happy to host a party in honor of the Emperor.”

Ling supposes it would be wise to show that he is friendly with the Zhaos, however not quite so much that the other clans think he’s their blind puppet.

“Well, I’m certainly too busy for a party so soon. Although I’m sure the Empress Dowager, Her Imperial Highness Xinyi Yao, would love to attend. Otherwise, I’ll be sure to hold a gathering within the palace by the next full moon.” If he’s going to attend any formal gathering it will be in his own playing field.

The silence stretches.

“I do trust that the Empress Dowager’s company is enough? She’s quite the entertainer, you know.”

She considers, then smiles thoughtfully to herself.

“Let Her Highness know I eagerly await her acceptance of our invitation, and that she is welcome in the Zhao residence any time she pleases.”

Bowing before him she gives him a once-over before excusing herself, hands in her sleeves. She looks as if she’d intended to stay in the room longer. When Wu Song re-enters the room he leans his head in question to Ling.

“Do you reckon that the Lady Zhao and my mother are closer than I think they are?”

Wu Song shakes his head in his confusion. The Emperor laughs and returns to his work.

 

* * *

 

Repair days for Lan Fan are not the most enjoyable thing in the world. Though she doesn’t like to admit it, she doesn’t like being seen without her arm, more so by palace staff than anything, because although she knows her own strength it’s more than irritating to be seen as weak by them when most of _them_ would not last more than a few seconds in a sparring match with her.

As much as she relents it repairs must be made, and soon enough she will have her arm back.

Ling is blowing off steam by sparring with Shou and it’s far more interesting to watch than sitting at the engineer’s table and watching him tweak her arm. Neither of them can gain the upper hand for long. Shou sweeps his leg underneath Ling’s. He catches the movement and jumps over his legs; this leaves room for him to grab the Emperor by the ankles. Unfortunately for him Ling is too quick and he lands a clean kick to Shou’s jaw, causing him to stumble back. He quickly jumps up to his feet and swings for Ling’s left. The blow is blocked, but Shou manages to grab his arm and twist it. The Emperor only winces and growls out a complaint before shoving him with his shoulder and landing a punch right to his solar plexus.

Then they stare at each other from across the field, circling, waiting. Ling wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. Shou spits out blood and smirks at him.

When Lan Fan looks at Shu Hai, who’s watching the two of them go at it alongside Mei Chang and Alphonse from the railing near the training grounds, there’s a look of worry plastered on her face. She comes over, rolling her empty shoulder, her hand hesitantly patting the girl’s shoulder. It’s a little awkward but it catches her attention, and she looks a little soothed.

“Don’t fret, my lady. Ling wouldn’t actually do enough to actually hurt Shou.”

“Maybe he should,” Mei pipes up. Shu Hai looks at Mei in worry; Xiao Mei jumps from Mei’s shoulder up to Alphonse and scrambles up his arm, the both of them now watching the fight happening below with intensity. “It might make healing them both afterwards a little more fun.”

“ _Mei_ ,” Lan Fan warns. “You would put the Emperor in a position where he could get hurt?”

The Princess Chang frowns and rolls her eyes. “No, but it’s been ages since I’ve healed a _real_ injury.”

Alphonse cracks a smile, still watching the sparring match. “You’re ever protective,” he mentions to Lan Fan in Amestrian. She shoots the man a look and huffs, settling otherwise. “You’re getting repairs done?”

“Yes. It’ll be a little longer until it’s done. Maybe half an hour,” Lan Fan responds in Amestrian. Her tongue curls awkwardly around the syllables. It’s been forever since she’s spoken the language but she’ll indulge Alphonse for his comfort.

“How’s your automail been?”

Her eyes are trained on the sparring match happening below. Shou just barely dodges a blow to the face from Ling, moving fast to find an opening. He feints a kick to Ling’s leg and kicks again, higher this time. A _whoosh_ sound comes from Ling’s mouth as he’s knocked back. From the ground he laughs heartily. Shou drops his defenses and offers a hand to Ling, instead getting yanked to the ground with him. He bellows a laugh before rolling back to his feet and forcibly pulling Ling this time.

“It’s been alright. I’m trying some new carbon parts to make it… not heavy.” A little smile tugs at her mouth.

Alphonse beams. _Like brother_ , he muses silently.

Xiao Mei jumps back down to Mei’s shoulder. She bounds down the wooden steps to the training yard, already pulling out her kunai knives in preparation for healing. Seeing Lan Fan turn to go to her charge, Shu Hai taps Alphonse and beckons him to follow. The sweep of her peach-colored robes over his arm is inviting.

Down in the training yard Lan Fan comes silently to her master’s side, arms crossed, looking pointedly at Shou. He waves at her, then before she can scold him for having gone too far, he dumps a bucket of water over his and Ling’s heads. She glares at him, then softens when her master grins. Mei feels along Ling’s arms quickly, disappointment coming over her features when there’s only a minor fracture in his lower right arm. Resigning herself, she gets to work healing his arm. Alphonse watches intensely.

Shu Hai rests a hand on Shou’s shoulder. “Does it hurt?”

He gives a little roll of his neck, shrugging. “No, not really.”

She hums. Her eyes light up with recognition when she sees one of the Huang princes approach. “Xie!”

The boy jogs forward upon hearing his name, bowing to Ling, then to Mei, Shu Hai, Shou, and lastly to Alphonse and Lan Fan, leaving them both puzzled.

“I was looking for you, miss!” He proclaims, smiling widely.

Shou leans over to Shu Hai. “Who’s the kid?”

She squints at him. “Xie Huang. One of the Huang princes, dear,” she emphasizes.

“Did I already miss the sparring session?” The boy asks, looking expectantly to Ling and Shou.

“I’m afraid so, Xie. Shou put me through the works.”

Xie hangs his head, kicking his feet in the dirt. Lan Fan looks between him and Shou, then to Ling, and an idea registers across her face. Mei moves to begin healing the General Yao; Lan Fan steps forward to interfere momentarily.

“No, Prince Xie, there’ll be a fight for you to see,” she asserts, nodding her head towards Shou. “Wait here.”

Xie Huang jumps up, looking right at the Emperor and back to Shou. His excitement is infectious. The Emperor watches Lan Fan leave, jogging up the stairs, presumably to the repair room not too far away, then turns to face the gathering group. There’s a shiver of anticipation that runs up Ling’s spine; it’s been quite a while since he’s seen Lan Fan display her prowess as a fighter, though he knows she’d never slack off in her training. In the mornings right at dawn, when he is not awake yet, she’s down by the training yard sparring with the wooden dummies, sharpening and polishing her blades, practicing her weapon usage. By the time he’s awake, when the sun has risen and the morning mist clears, she’s waiting outside his door, already bathed and reporting for duty. By that time Shou usually comes around the corner to make his morning report looking like he’d just rolled out of bed.

Twenty minutes or so later Lan Fan returns.

Her automail has been freshly polished and reconnected to her body. It gleams menacingly in the sunlight. When she looks to her master, eyes burning brightly, he nods back to her in approval, motioning for their party to follow.

“Watch closely, Xie Huang, or you’ll miss her every move,” Ling mentions to the little prince.

His dark eyes become dazzling in his enthusiasm. The air crackles and buzzes with a tangible kind of energy.

 _This should be fun_ , the Emperor muses.

 

* * *

  


Lan Fan draws in a few deep breaths from across the arena. They’ve moved to a wider space with different terrain—higher walls, ledges, small groups of jagged rocks, training dummies, various clumps of bamboo shoots—in order to accommodate a far more entertaining battle. Ling and his entourage watch from a high balcony, away from the reaches of the battle, yet close enough that Xie Huang might be able to study Lan Fan and Shou’s moves.

She glances back at the Emperor. He’s grinning very cat-like above her, leaning into his hand.

Shou rolls his shoulders, shooting a look up at Shu Hai, who sits behind her fan, leaning her head in acknowledgement down at him. He’s aware of his own abilities, but he’s also aware of Lan Fan’s; if he is to win this fight, it certainly won’t be easy.

And, really, he can’t allow it to hurt his own ego if he _does_ lose.

“Are you ready, Emperor’s Shadow?”

Her eyes narrow. “When you are.”

“Begin!” Ling Yao announces, and before he can finish his sentence Lan Fan is darting headfirst across the arena. Shou circles her; he realizes she’s going for his weak side, the left, where the scar over his left eyebrow is; it’s pure observation, and she’s not wrong for sticking to that side of him. It forces him to go on the defensive.

When they get close enough, she tests the air a few times. He dodges each blow, pressuring her backwards, so she throws her first punch. It’s a clean hit to his left shoulder, not entirely without consequence—he moves to throw his fist into the same spot on her own body, narrowly missing the large part of the metal, scratching a knuckle on one of the screws embedded near her collarbone. Lan Fan flinches.

Shou wastes no time in coming at her again, towards her face this time. Her metal arm—the tougher arm physically, and certainly lighter than it was before, it seems—blocks the blow, but not before his other fist can nail her on the cheek. Eyes narrowing again her left leg comes up swiftly to hit him clean between his jaw and his neck, leaving him open to twist her leg backwards. Lan Fan pushes up off the ground and rotates her body to propel her other foot again towards his face. He leans back in order to avoid it—his nose takes the hit instead.

Probably broken. Then again, it looks like the flesh in her shoulder is hurting from his punch earlier, and now, too, when she rolls to the ground and braces her fall with her left shoulder blade.

Ling Yao watches curiously. Though his bodyguard’s automail doesn’t hurt as much as it used to it’s certainly a weak point.

Their fighting leads them up to one of the collections of rocks. Shou’s barefoot, yet on the higher level; Lan Fan is in her boots so she wastes no time running up to him. She misses a knee to the face by just a hair, and uses the opportunity to leap up and knee him in the stomach. He goes for several more kicks to her outer legs—damn her and those strong _legs_ of hers—and upon the fourth and strongest hit to her leg she jumps up, rotating impossibly fast and aiming for his center. His abdomen is strong, and he takes the blow very well, yet it’s enough to make him fall onto his back. Using his hands he flips himself backwards and comes back to a standing position.

Lan Fan has already leapt towards the bamboo shoots, most likely attempting to recover from her hit to the stomach and the blows to her legs. Shou tails her, not too far behind. The bodyguard, ever the clever woman with many tricks up her sleeve, outwits him for a moment.

There’s a flash of light reflecting from the blade rushing from her metal arm and then several bamboo shoots falling. Using her foot she rolls one up into her hands and readies it towards him. When she swings he slides under it, skidding along the ground and rolling a lengthy shoot into his hands. Before she can crack the make-shift staff over his head he meets the strike in perpendicular motion, shoving her off and sending her backwards. He moves to hit her legs, managing to whip one of her thighs. She cries out and practically growls back at him. When he flips the staff around to go for her ribs the blade comes up again—the one in her arm—and she slices clean through the bamboo. Sucking in a breath in surprise, he moves away, but not in time to miss her attack. Midair she catches one of the two pieces of his staff, sending it hurtling to his face, and rolls out and away.

Shou pants, taking off back towards the courtyard area where there’s flat land. The bodyguard is really making him put in work now.

When he makes it to the courtyard she squints her eyes at him, wasting no time in coming at him once more.

“What’s the matter? Bent on,” he dodges her fists coming for him in rapid succession, “Not losing to me?”

“ _Yěshòu_ ,” she spits out. His knee finds an opening right at her left side and she stumbles, using the force to propel her right leg forward in a powerful kick. It sends him backwards with a _whoosh._ Shou has nearly forgotten how volatile the woman is in a fight—and clearly, in her time here at the palace, she’s only gotten better at her job.

Xie Huang is in awe at the way the two of them go at it. Lan Fan is an aerial master; Shou packs a _serious_ punch and has brutal strength in every blow. The way they fight is like dancing. Lan Fan can easily read his movements, and in turn, Shou doesn’t pull any punches just because she’s a woman. It’s unlike anything Xie has ever seen before—he doesn’t know whether he should cheer for Lan Fan or for Shou for how he admires both of their respective skills in combat.

“She’s the best of them all,” Ling tells Xie Huang. “I’ve never met anyone more fierce than her on the battlefield, man or woman.”

“And she’s your bodyguard?” The boy questions, his eyes bright. The Emperor gestures with his head, proudly smirking to himself.

“Well, I have many guards in my security detail. Shou is one of them, and he handles all things military in Xing, especially here in the capital.” He pauses then, looking down at the two of them. Lan Fan leaps off of one of the walls and sends her leg spiking downwards into Shou’s right shoulder. It may or may not be dislocated after that. Surely enough for Mei to finally heal something more serious.

“And the bodyguard—?”

“ _Lan Fan._ Her name is Lan Fan. She’s been my personal bodyguard since we were six years old, and a family friend to the Yao clan since birth.” He glances more seriously at the young prince. “There is nothing that will ever make her hesitate. If my life is in danger there’s no question as to what she will do, no matter who the attacker is.”

Xie gazes at Lan Fan and Shou below. The general lands a clean kick to her side. He’s fast, but she’s faster, and she grasps his ankle, twisting it so that it drives him straight to the ground. In Xie’s peripheral vision he sees Shu Hai wince.

There on the ground, before he can roll out of the way, Lan Fan pins him, lifting his head and tucking her blade underneath his neck.

“A fair match, General Yao,” and after a moment he taps out, chuckling through his heaving for air. She pulls him to stand.

“Indeed,” they bow to each other simultaneously. Shou throws an arm around her and ruffles her hair.

When Lan Fan looks up towards the balcony she meets her master’s eyes, alight with pride, and she feels her _qi_ rumble with happiness.

 

* * *

 

The whistles and chirps of birds in the palace have begun to die down. The air is calm now, and the _qi_ below Ling thrumming with the quiet of late evening. Much of the palace staff has retired. After Mei had healed Shou and Lan Fan’s injuries she’d taken off to the library with Alphonse, and Shu Hai had taken Shou’s arm with glee, sparking conversation with him, eager to go into the Imperial City before nightfall. Ling had allowed it; he has Lan Fan with him anyways, and she’s proven her capabilities in handling both him and herself.

So the rest of his evening is quiet. There in the garden he sits below the plum blossom tree, underneath the rush of petals, quietly minding himself.

Lan Fan is not so easy.

Her mask, though she chooses not to wear it most days, is tied to her hip today; she slips it on and pulls on her hood with caution.

There’s the flicker of something she’s sure her master can’t detect or else he wouldn’t be so lax. It feels like pure malice, like a scorpion readying for its strike, and somewhere else a cobra rearing its head, fangs at the ready, but it only appears on her radar every few minutes, and it doesn’t like moving. It’s as if the presence is waiting for time to pass. It unnerves her entirely.

Otherwise, it’s calm. Quiet. If there is anyone there she’s sure she can fend them off quickly, and although she’d rather avoid that possibility entirely it’s bound to happen at one point or another.

The click of wooden chimes fills the air. Again, the presence appears; it’s closer this time, so much so that Ling shoots up from where he’s lying on the ground, and looks towards his bodyguard.

“Has Shou returned yet?”

Lan Fan blankets her _qi_ , feeling for his being; he feels like strong wood, and he’s not far from where they are in the palace. Near him is Shu Hai, her _qi_ glowing like sunlight on water.

“Yes. Him and Shu Hai are not far.”

He stands closer to her now.

The presence is heavier now, thick like quicksand, threatening to pull them under. Lan Fan readies her kunai; Ling pulls out the dao knife tied to his hip. The feel of it is harrowing, like they are animals caught in a trap—and they have wandered into it no problem.

It disappears like it had never been there before. Lan Fan can’t tell if its the cloaking of _qi_ or if it is something else entirely, but the Dragon’s Pulse seems to still and quiet itself. Neither of them sheath their weapons just yet. Wooden chimes click again; somewhere, a bunch of birds are startled into the air and fly wildly out of the way.

 _That_ is a telltale sign. There’s something murky, something blocking the stretch of her _qi_ that tells her there _is_ cloaking going on. They feel like rocks in a stream; distorted by the light, and their depth within the Dragon’s Pulse unclear. It’s blurry.

Then there’s a grenade tossed right in the middle of the garden.

“My lord, _get down!_ ” Lan Fan shouts. He complies without question and dives out of the way, and she uses her metal arm to toss the explosive quickly back from where it had come from. When she does she sees the spray of blood as it lights up, and from another direction there’s something like the feel of that cobra, hissing this time, preparing to strike.

Before the arrow can hit its proper target her kunai deflects it down to the ground, the wood split in half. Blood pumps furiously through Lan Fan’s veins; there’s attackers on all sides and she has to take them out _fast._

 

* * *

 

Her first priority is taking down whichever men she can from the roof. They’ve unmasked their _qi_ now, probably to focus on their target, and Lan Fan senses six of the original seven of them. Swinging up to the roof, her _qi_ still tapped into Ling’s, she makes quick work of a man with a bow and arrow before he can even register her behind him, her blade cutting clean through his throat. Snatching his weapon she looses arrows towards the other two archers, hitting one in the eye and the other right in the throat. Another arrow is shot to the first man in the back as he slumps over the edge of the roof and out of sight.

_No armor._

This is either an untrained and sloppily put together team of assassins or these men are just carrying a message for someone higher, more important than them. Lan Fan fears the latter.

One of them attempts to sneak up behind her. She turns around fast, her kunai already at the ready. The man is wearing a red mask with a _yang_ symbol that drives her into a blind rage. _Not one_ of these lousy fighters is good enough to claim any symbol at all on their masks, let alone the _yang_. That’s an honor she has, an honor Fu had.

The man attempts to parry several times but only ends up with slits to both wrists and his inner arms, begging for mercy. She ties him tight with his own rope sitting at his waist and shoves him off the roof into the garden below.

It doesn’t matter how badly he’s injured—as long as he’s still alive he can give them answers.

Ling is fighting off one more of them—a woman, she realizes, and a tall and strong one at that. He’s holding his own of course, but she’s clearly better than the rest. When she sees Lan Fan approach the last two enemies appear from the shadows. They’re both wearing black suits with red masks, various symbols painted on the forehead. From what she can see the moon is painted on all three of them.

She engages combat with the two of them, going straight for the shorter one’s legs. Kneeing the taller man and forcing him to double over she slits the backs of the legs of the shorter one, then twists his right arm in order to dislocate it. The other man charges forward and she’s able to knock him over and send her kunai plunging into his throat. Ripping the blade out she points it towards the woman, who Ling has managed to tear up quite a bit; there’s a gash on her arm and a wound spurting blood from her side.

Turning to look between the two of them, the woman laughs.

“Looks like _I_ am outnumbered.” Her voice is husky and low, like that of a tiger. It is certainly not one Lan Fan has heard in the palace before.

“Who do you work for?” Lan Fan shouts, coming at her. The woman only claws at Lan Fan, just barely grazing her right hand and drawing a stinging amount of blood—sharpened nails, she realizes, probably infused with metal through alkahestry—then clambers up to the rooftop, saluting them both.

“For you Ling Yao, we’ll be back.” Lan Fan’s kunai whistles through the air and plunges into the woman’s arm. She curses and throws a flash grenade, forcing Lan Fan to duck and shield her charge. By the time they can look up the woman is gone. Her _qi_ is cloaked again.

They both catch their breath for a moment. Ling glances over at Lan Fan, who’s undoubtedly shaken up, steadying the rattling of her automail hand with her flesh one.

“Are you alright?” She asks after a while, sighing quietly.

“I am. Your hand,” he murmurs, reaching forward. Lan Fan’s eyes are still ablaze, the panic of the moment quickly dying down. She trains her breathing and blankets out her _qi_ one more time to check for any remaining threats or telltale signs of malice.

“I’m fine,” she manages, looking down at her hand.

“Come then. Let’s find Mei and Shou.”

It takes a moment for his command to register. When he finally stands she follows. In her disturbance she is silent the entire time.

 

* * *

 

Little is accomplished during the impromptu meeting Ling has with his palace guard detail; Shou is angry with himself for not having been there, and Mei needs time to find any leads alongside Bao Chang. Lan Fan is strict, tight, and utterly _cold_ when she orders the guards to tighten their restrictions. There will be guards posted outside each room Ling is in from now on and never less than three guards within the surrounding areas of the palace wherever Ling is. Mei suggests that he has the newer members of palace staff questioned, starting there to see if that’s how the group managed to get past the security gates. None of the palace guards had been injured before the arrival of the assassins—only after when the woman had escaped. Four bodies were collected, alongside one prisoner, meaning one of the men had also avoided capture. After some time inspecting the bodies Lan Fan had realized it was the man she had shot in the eye and the back; how he had escaped she doesn’t know, but she assumes it was the woman’s doing.

Right now all that matters is that the Emperor is safe.

He’d insisted that she rest; instead, far too stubborn as she is, she had chosen to stand guard. There were two guards posted outside the entirety of his chambers; Lan Fan stands outside the door to his bedroom.

And now, for the life of him, Ling can’t sleep. Thoughts swarm his head of the enemy, how many there had been, how much time had passed since the last attempt on his life. How Lan Fan must be blaming herself for this somehow—and really, he’s the one that had become so lax in his position that he’d let any potential enemy slip under his radar.

Not Lan Fan. Never Lan Fan, for how dutiful she is, and how she has done her job so well. Always.

He sits there in his thoughts for a long while, the moon streaming in through the window in his roof. Clouds roll by in waves, and after some time, the moon passes. Stretching his _qi_ outwards he reaches for her there by the door, her presence like a weight in the water _._ He feels ridiculous for shying away from her like this, but he doesn’t know what space she needs right now, if any at all. She responds, a rush of her senses over his that is quickly reigned in. Her _qi_ has always felt like molten silver to him and it swirls warmly just outside the door, pulls the tiniest bit at him.

Eventually Ling releases his _qi_ , sits up in bed and lets his feet hit the floor one by one. Before he knows it he’s by the door, and without thinking he tugs it open, meeting the sight of her back, her head quickly tilting upwards to attention. She doesn’t turn around to look at him.

Something gnaws at the inside of his chest when she doesn’t. Something pulses within him.

“I’m not hurt, you know,” he mumbles.

“I know,” she responds, stepping away to finally turn and look at him. He tilts his head, something of a reassuring smile tugging at his mouth.

“Lan Fan.” Her eyes are dark, heavy, and entirely too weary to do her any good standing guard at these hours.

Her hand comes up to hug her flesh arm closer to her body. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Could I see your automail?”

She visibly stiffens at the question. There’s the give of her left arm, then a creak of metal that must have escaped her tedious oiling that afternoon when she shifts just slightly. Ling recalls how she’d told him sometimes blood would build and congeal in its darkest crevices. It had seemed barbaric; but she’d been desensitized to it, and turned her automail into her greatest weapon.

Trust Lan Fan to turn a loss into a gain.

Eventually she relaxes, shoulders falling lightly and her arms coming down to her sides. A hand ghosts over the fabric at her neck, carefully tugging it down and away. There’s the slip of cotton from inside her robe and then Lan Fan’s automail is free, right at the shoulder; the scar tissue runs right up to underneath the left side of her neck. The undershirt she’s wearing does little to help her feel less exposed.

The brush of his finger along the rippled scar tissue sends a jolt up her spine, then sinks as something heavy in the pit of her stomach. Ling Yao’s fingertips are on her skin, and they are warm, impossibly inviting. Certainly far too inviting to be appropriate, but her senses are skewed, clouded, misguided.

For her there is the Lan Fan that will obey any request or command of the Emperor—always wanting to fulfill and complete, always wishing to provide.

And then there is the Lan Fan that craves, that aches. The one that quietly enjoys a simple touch.

A finger presses down along the flesh, and then Ling’s whole hand comes down right at the center between her shoulders. The sensation of bare skin along bare skin. Instinctively Lan Fan’s shoulders retract and, when he smooths his hand down she goes lax once more, the rhythm of his touch taking over again. A sigh escapes his mouth as if it were caught in his throat on the way out.

Just as his hand moves over the tissue that leads into the metal bolted into her shoulder Lan Fan draws in a breath she didn’t know she needed; the skin there is warm and tender and still so much more sensitive than the rest. She hears the hiss of metal as his finger falls along the armored plates, curious, wandering. It takes everything in Lan Fan to be still.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, his touch draws back. Something lingers there between their bodies, a magnetic pull.

There’s _something_ swirling in Lan Fan’s stomach that she cannot name. When she tucks her arm back into her robe and tightens it again, slipping her armor back on, too, he pats his hands reassuringly on her shoulders.

“Please rest,” he asks of her, watching her eyes (and how hazy they look in the moonlight—but then he wonders if she’d been drawn into the same trance as him).

Neither of them sleep much that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit on 8/16  
> translations:
> 
> yěshòu* - without any spoilers that would ruin the fun, lan fan takes the "shou" part of shou's name and turns it into the word "beast", even though it doesn't make sense grammatically—but that's to avoid any spoilers ;)
> 
> *i was really hoping i got this translation right but there were so many results, including just "shòu". if anyone tells me the first one i put is wrong, i'd be happy to change it to the correct translation :) i'm much better with spanish and japanese than i am with chinese that's for sure


	5. A Moving Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lan Fan and Shou move throughout the city; Xinyi Yao has an interesting conversation with Shu Hai Yao; and Ling Yao, well. He has always been a man particularly prone to following the needs of his heart and his people rather than abiding by propriety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY FOR MY ABSENCE, AGHHHH. life got SO busy, music school is fantastic and moving and i really need to practice more. i recently started taking commissions too so there goes my free time ;___; but it's nice to make money that way! if you'd like to commission me i have twitter and tumblr for contact. anyways, um, since i wanna get straight to the chapter, i want to say that there are only a few new characters here, and i will put new descriptions in later.
> 
> there's most definitely typos because i'm rushing to post, so i will go back some time this week and make edits. otherwise i hope you enjoy!
> 
> also! OST link. this chapter is dream about a cloud up until romance from the past: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6nDdUf9Ot8M&list=PLjYxCbfu_66zBvDkU6ABoPbbjW7nvQR1D

“You look like hell.”

Lan Fan shoots Shou a look for his comment, pulling her cowl away from her face. Before he can say anything further she juggles two peeled oranges between one hand and tosses them to him.

“It wasn’t meant as an insult. You look like you haven’t slept,” her face contorts when he bites straight into the fruit instead of separating the orange pieces, “And you and I know that’ll only make the Emperor worry.”

A little satisfied smirk creeps onto his face when Shou realizes he’s spot-on.

“I don’t need the Emperor to worry about me,” she remarks quietly, scowling at the fruit in her hand. She’d gone for the apples instead, slicing them with her metal hand. If there were any perks to having a prosthetic it’d be that the arm doesn’t bleed no matter how many times she cuts it.

“Like it or not, he’s going to. You’re his most loyal subject and his most valuable asset.” She tries not to let the word _valuable_ get to her head. “Besides. We’ve been friends for some time, Lan Fan. I know exhaustion on you when I see it.”

It’s his way of saying he, too, is worried. Her face soothes a bit. She still changes the subject.

“Did your men find anything on the Zhao?”

“Not a damn thing.” As Lan Fan expected, but better to be safe than sorry.

“And the Huang?”

Shou rolls his eyes. “Do you think the Huang clan would be so stupid as to involve themselves in another assassination scandal after what happened _last_ time?”

“From what I know, they’ve kept their positions of power by being extremely loyal to the throne for centuries.” The man nods, tying his hair at the base of his neck and pulling his hood on.

“Aside from their clan chief’s attempt at murdering the Song Moon Ruler.”

“They’ve been loyal since then.”

“Still, nothing is permanent.”

“Only death,” Lan Fan offers with a low chuckle.

Shou snorts. “Isn’t that why the Emperor has the Philosopher’s Stone?”

Lan Fan says nothing, but the halfway smile on her face fades quickly. She knows the truth behind the stone. She knows the horror behind it.

The violet-gray hues of morning begin to brighten behind Shou’s figure. Their plan is to scout the Qing Prefecture now that Shou’s men have counted the Zhao and Huang out of their potential leads. For Lan Fan, personally, the most suspect of the clans within the prefectures has always been the Qing and the Zhao; though with how much time she has spent within the presence of the Zhao women there is less to worry about as a bodyguard and more to worry about politically between the Qing daughters. And the Qing family, after all, has walled off their palace from the rest of the city, making them all the more secretive. It’s forced her and Shou to get their hands dirty with what is essentially espionage.

It’s not like Lan Fan is unfamiliar with spying—her grandfather had taught her much about tracking down the enemy before they could even think to hurt the prince—but it distracts her from regular duties, duties she is more well-suited for. Duties that mean she can keep an eye on the prince-turned-emperor at all times.

Her teeth grit in frustration. Sometimes she does not love everything about her work.

Before the sun can brighten the sky any further, Lan Fan and Shou are off.

Outside the Imperial Palace’s main gate is relatively quiet. It isn’t until they reach the bottom of the hill that it rests on that things begin to stir and unravel. There’s a drunkard in an alley that Shou stops to sit upright as to avoid choking on his own vomit, and in another quiet alley an overly-intimate couple getting handsy with one another. It makes both Shou and Lan Fan visibly uncomfortable. By this time they’ve both slipped on their masks—Lan Fan her _yin_ mask and Shou with a sun painted on his own. The rooftops begin to shift in color to the once-vibrant azure of the Qing; now, though, they have aged considerably, and are not quite so dazzling.

From the highest rooftop (aside from the mighty tower of the Qing palace) they view the area carefully. They both cloak their _qi_. The sun is just beginning to rise over the Eastern District where the Huang Prefecture resides, and, just before it does, the front servant gates of the Qing palace are opened for a single hooded figure dressed in the plain deep turquoise of a Qing servant—a far-cry from the luxurious Qing azure. Shou and Lan Fan share a look.

“There’s no reason for a servant to be going through the front gate—not before dawn.”

“Do you think it’s a spy?”

“Maybe. It wouldn’t be above them.”

Nearly forty minutes pass. The sun is well above the Eastern District. People are awake and moving about now and if either Lan Fan or Shou had blinked they’d miss the same figure coming out into the street from a servants’ entrance off to the western side of the Qing wall.

“Should we follow?” Shou asks, eyes tailing the figure down a busy street. Whoever they are, they’re heading for the Northeast Market—the second largest market in the Imperial City, but the most populated one of all.

“Slowly.”

 

* * *

  


They tail him into the spice market where they are both overpowered by smells of all kinds; if Lan Fan focuses, she can smell cinnamon, paprika, and ginger from a vendor closeby.

Her _qi_ hones in on the mysterious Qing figure through the mass of people in the market. 

Wooden beads click as an elder woman runs her hands along them, attempting to entice onlookers into buying her wares. Shou waves Lan Fan forward as he drops the necessary _qian_ and takes a wooden necklace with dark brown circular beads and shoves it quickly into his armor. The woman bows in an unusual fashion, and, with a look of surprise, Shou returns it in kind, making note of her peculiar dress—but there’s no time to speculate as to where she might be from. There’s a twinkle in her eye as he walks away. Slowly, he makes his way towards the presence of that _qi_ and towards Lan Fan’s gleaming silvery presence. It races like galloping hooves but feels like the touch of fingers in the dirt—earthy, but clearly nervous.

In the throng of people the _qi_ moves in wayward motion like waves crashing into one another. The figure is one of many, and if it weren’t for Lan Fan’s proficiency in _qi_ -sensing she’s sure they would have lost it by now.

Silks in the most wonderful colors she’s ever seen flow in front of her, obscuring pockets of her vision. The seamstress looks curiously at Lan Fan; her wandering gaze is ignored. There’s a child selling porcelain nearby, too, and to the left a man seated gracefully in his chair, scrolls of all kinds of artwork on display. Something about the figures in the paintings feels familiar, even at just a glance. They’re not in traditional Xingese _ruqun,_ and their hair is pulled back in ornate fashions with golden hairpins, posed so gracefully it seems unnatural. Their faces are stark white. The artist has painted citizens of Xerxes, too, she realizes, with their golden hair depicted with warm oils—just like that of Edward Elric and Van Hohenheim. She wishes there were more time to stop and admire it, but their target keeps moving.

As they continue to follow they enter a more narrow strip, where vendors are selling fresh fruits, vegetables, more spices (less pungent; Shou wrinkles his nose in relief), and then jewelry inlaid with gold, jade, and all sorts of sparkling gems that would make any Xingese princess swoon. Ceramics with fashioned dolls and vases and pottery, a blacksmith, a traditional food stand (Lan Fan smells sweet potatoes and feels her stomach growl), roasted meats on kebab sticks that tickle her stomach further. Their target gradually makes his way to the left side of the pathway, finally stopping at a stand selling masks. She stops abruptly, people of the street parting around her like the sea. Shou drags her away in order to not draw attention to themselves.

Lan Fan and Shou come to a stop at the food stand, listening for anything they can hear. Unfortunately he and the mask-seller speak in low, soft tones, and eventually the mask-seller allows him to pass by into the small alley behind his stand. They glance cautiously at one another.

Then, she sees it: a red mask with a black moon painted onto it, different in design but entirely too similar to the masks worn by the strange attackers to be coincidence. It has age to it from what she can tell, but she has no knowledge of it beyond that.

Lan Fan gives a few _qian_ to the food vendor and hands a roasted pork kebab to Shou. With a look around they pull off their masks and hoods, eating quietly and passing time to avoid suspicion before approaching. A child comes and looks expectantly to Lan Fan, his hollow cheeks and watery eyes more than enough for her to give him the rest of the _qian_ in her pocket.

After a few minutes Lan Fan makes her way to the stand, her own mask concealed behind her back and tied securely to her hips. The mask-seller is seated haphazardly upon his chair, reading a newspaper and looking rather bored.

She swallows. “This mask,” she points to the red one with her automail hand, “how much is it?”

The man gives her a once over. His eyes squint as he puts down the newspaper.

“Do you know, _child_ , what lies on the dark side of the moon?”

Lan Fan’s face almost contorts in her bewilderment, but she catches the feeling before it can become readable.

“...No,” and she damn near curses herself because she feels the building suspicion-turned-impatience of someone’s _qi_ in the alley directly in front of her. There is no need to look them directly in the eye; whoever these people are, she clearly isn’t welcome here.

“...It isn’t for sale,” he says finally, and the man relaxes again, looking at her once more. “You and your friend had best move along.” He nudges his head in the direction of Shou, who stands idle nearby, his ear titled towards their conversation. His head perks up only the slightest.

Without a word, Lan Fan stalks towards Shou and onwards. He follows with protest but she’s fuming and cannot contain the anger of having been found out, and continues to storm ahead.

She hopes dearly that the Emperor will not be disappointed in their report.

 

* * *

 

 

At noon it begins to rain.

Shu Hai gathers her skirts, the train of her _ruqun_ in the arms of two handmaidens. She walks hurriedly along the lacquered mahogany of the Empress Dowager’s wing of the palace. A sharp left leads her to the tea room, the doors waiting open for her, and she takes her place at the soft blue pillow and cherry wood table. Dabbing her forehead with a handkerchief she thanks the stars in Heaven above that she made it to the tea room before the Empress Yao herself.

The handmaidens look at her expectantly.

“Ah. Would you bring us jasmine-vanilla tea for today, please?”

The girls nod and smile before scurrying away. Shu Hai wonders of them. They don’t speak much Xingese; she has heard them speak amongst themselves before though, speaking in what she assumes to be a language from the Far East—and even then, only Shou has ever taught her a few words of the language from his many travels in that direction, so she can’t understand a thing they are saying.

Before she has much time to think of how or _why_ exactly he’s picked up on so much of the language there’s a flash of creamy silk in the corner of her vision, then the drape of olive green and yellow over the mahogany floorboards. She must be honoring the Huang princes today. Handmaidens are dismissed at the door and Xinyi tilts her head gracefully down towards the Princess Yao, who has prostrated herself upon the floor.

“Stand, my girl,” and she does, and Xinyi gathers small Shu Hai in her arms and squeezes her tight. A smile stretches across her face when she does.

“White is becoming of you, Empress.”

Xinyi Yao admires Shu Hai’s pale yellow _ruqun._ “Just Xinyi is _fine,_ Princess.”

The handmaidens return with the requested tea and an assortment of Western desserts. Shu Hai recognizes a flaky bread-like dessert (stuffed with strawberry and cream, she realizes) from Aerugo.

“Where has Ling been off to?”

“Meeting with his advisors,” Xinyi says coolly. “I’m sure Jun Hao will be bothering him about marriage sooner or later.” Dark eyes look up at the Princess Yao to look carefully for her answer.

Her words are clearly meant for a more private conversation; Shu Hai bows before standing to close the large wooden doors to the tea room. The guards outside do not pay her any mind.

Manicured fingers cling to the polished gold door handles. She feeds her words into the door rather than towards the Empress for fear of overstepping herself. “Does my dear cousin _plan_ to marry soon?”

The Empress clears her throat quietly and sets down her tea. The cup is drawn with blue phoenixes—admiring the little cup, she thinks softly of her only son. He has done well to rule so smoothly on his own, and the peace he has achieved now will soon begin to quell with the outer influence of the clans in Xing with daughters eligible for his hand.

“I can tell you in confidence that he has no intention of marrying—or _bedding_ , for that matter—anyone in the near future. Our Emperor, a thousand praises to him, has yet to even look at a girl around this palace.” Xinyi gives a kind of huff that somehow looks dignified.

“The elder Zhao princess has taken an interest in him,” Shu Hai points out, sipping her tea in thought.

“If Ling has noticed, he hasn’t entertained her whims.”

A pause settles between them—long, but warm.

“If you ask me, Xinyi,” Shu Hai says softly, her cheeks slowly tingeing red, “Ling _does_ have affections for someone in this palace.”

The Empress Dowager glances up at her niece in sudden interest. Her golden claw-tipped nails tap against the porcelain of her tea cup. “Oh? Who might my son be infatuated with?”

The Yao princess looks down into her cup, chewing her lip and looking away. Shifting uncomfortably, she stares at Xinyi with watery eyes, hoping to convey what she means to say—the Empress tilts her head with her stone smile in place, waiting for Shu Hai to continue.

“Not a lady of the court,” her eyes are nervous now, head shifted downward, staring down at the fine wood of the table.

A confused silence passes, and then, as if it were no big deal, the Empress Dowager’s face lights up with realization, and she laughs much harder than intended into the fine brocade of her sleeve. Then she snorts, and snorts _harder,_ Shu Hai relaxing her expression in relief, and Xinyi heaves a sigh before patting her wet cheek with a handkerchief.

“Oh my, _now_ I see what you mean, princess,” Xinyi exhales heavily.

“You do?”

“Of course. It makes sense now,” she points her pretty hand at her niece’s surprised face, “and it’s not going to be easy, but my son is persistent. He’ll find a way.” Shu Hai moves to speak but Xinyi shoots her a look that says she isn’t done.

“As for Lan Fan, well, I can never tell how that girl is feeling. She’s very protective of her feelings, even around the Emperor. The court would eat her alive if they even had suspicion that... she wished to be by the Emperor’s side.”

“More than she already does.”

“Yes,” Xinyi responds solemnly.

“You’re right.” The Yao princess speaks softly. Clearly discouraged, she looks down in shame at her tea cup, now empty—but Xinyi reaches forward to tilt her face upwards.

“No doubt, but that doesn’t mean things can’t be changed. Now I see why my son has avoided the idea of marriage for so long.”

“Is he really holding out on that because of his feelings?”

“Ling Yao is many things intelligent and strong, but he’s also very transparent. He’s hoping to find some way to bend the rules or break them entirely.” Xinyi rises to her feet and smiles stiffly.

“Where to, Xinyi?”

“Come. The garden in my wing of the palace is a much more private place.”’ She tugs Shu Hai to her feet rather unmercifully and pulls her along, causing the girl to stumble over her skirts.

“X-Xinyi?” The Empress Dowager’s face steels for a moment. Bringing Shu Hai close, she tightens her hands over hers, leaning in close to assert herself.

“Your loyalties lie to the Emperor first, but you understand that you are also loyal to the Yao.” Xinyi brushes a strand of hair from her niece’s forehead.

A puzzled look crosses over her features. As Xinyi stands straighter, holding Shu Hai firm, her lips pull into an acid smile, and the Princess Yao has to choose her next words carefully.

“I trust you, Xinyi.”

“Good.” The Empress Dowager pulls Shu Hai along, straight towards the gardens. “Do you know what my dear son told me when he’d returned from the West, Shu Hai?”

Her head tilts in question.

Xinyi’s eyes blaze with fire.

“Nothing is impossible.”

 

* * *

  


In his study, the air cool and thin, Ling Yao taps his foot impatiently. There are no windows for fresh air, the room purposely built that way to keep outsiders and eavesdroppers from stealing petty information from the Emperors of Xing in recent times. He’s surrounded by two of his advisors and as much as he admires both of them—they were senators of their different clan territories before this, after all—he can’t say that their arguing is tolerable nor is it entertaining. Usually it would be, but he’s waiting for Lan Fan to return, and he misses the feeling of her watchful eye, even if she must scold him in her own permissible way.

Yu Jiang, from Jiang-guo to the north (a region of Xing known for its hardiness and exquisite winter furs), is cold and dignified in her petty quarrels with his other present advisor. Jun Hao is from the West, full of dry plains and large cliffs. His country aches for tradition to up and leave so that the Hao clan might have a better chance against the larger clans of Xing, but Yu Jiang cannot see what his point is.

“I _told_ you, a total abolishment of the fifty clans is what will give us the tools we need to stop all this—this political nonsense and these petty power struggles!” Jun Hao gives a boisterous laugh when Yu Jiang lowers her head and pinches her nose.

“We are all one people, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have our own cultural differences on a smaller scale, _Jun._ We are all proud of our backgrounds and we have a right to assimilate based on that. It’s not your place to dissolve the Empire entirely—”

“I’m not saying that _,_ but look around, Jiang. They’re already beginning with this—pardon my Cretan— _shit._ The Zhao women have already started plotting for the Emperor’s hand. Which one of them will be next? When will someone die here in front of us in the palace? It can’t be that long.”

There’s a soft rap at the door and, in the middle of his words, Jun Hao gets up from his seat in his rugged dark red robes and swings it open. Lan Fan is there, and Ling shoots up from his desk hurriedly at the sight of her.

Yu Jiang clears her throat. “We need to get rid of some traditions, but not all of them. Xing is a culture based on just that—tradition.” The Emperor waves his bodyguard into the room.

Before Jun Hao can respond Ling sucks in a breath and shouts above them. “That’s _enough_ of your incessant bickering. Come back in a three week’s time and we’ll sort this out more thoroughly—”

Jun Hao wrinkles his nose. “A month? This should be sorted out _now_ — _”_

“You would disobey your Emperor’s orders?” The advisor’s face quickly erases any trace of anger or amusement. “You would speak above him, your supreme ruler? You would assume that he is lacking in competence, and that you know better than him?” Ling Yao’s voice resounds loudly throughout the room with a booming electric shock.

Lan Fan observes the ordeal. The _qi_ below them seems to absorb his anger, pulsating in thick, wild waves, so unlike the tranquility that is usually about him. She sees, for the first time, the power that has come to fruition inside her charge, and not just because of his title as Emperor; no, he stands tall, broad-shouldered, jaw wired and tense, his eyes blazing with fury. Just like that of a Phoenix. For a moment it’s almost like the homunculus Greed has risen from his ashy, tormented end inside of him somewhere, rebirthed into some awe-invoking man of impossible strength and power—which he is, but now Lan Fan can _physically_ see it in him. When his shoulders set and the line of his mouth smooths, his eyes remain burning. Jun Hao swallows hard, and Yu Jiang prostrates herself before him in shame. Eventually Jun falls to his hands and knees, too.

“Pardon this one for stepping out of line, Your Majesty,” he says into the floorboards, not making eye contact with the Emperor.

“You’re both dismissed,” he says curtly. Those are his final words, and the two advisors quickly leave the room lest they receive any more punishment than a scolding.

With a soft breath Ling smooths back fallen strands of hair from his face back into place. He turns to Lan Fan; their eyes meet for a tense moment. Slowly Ling takes his hand and pats it gently on his bodyguard’s shoulder.

“I sincerely hope I haven’t made you fear me, Lan Fan.”

Blinking wide-eyed, her gaze settles on the lip of his robes. His throat relaxes, bobbing up and down in a slow swallow. His jaw unclenches and he lets out a soft, patient breath. She tears her eyes away and forces herself to stare down at the floor.

Ling’s eyes shoot open in surprise, looking down at her reddening cheeks and her busy hands worrying at her cowl. Honestly, he’d expected her to reassure him like it was nothing, not stare down at the floor in embarrassment. Her mask isn’t on either—good, he’d rather see her face now anyway; it’s a relief from his advisors and their silly personal arguments charading as politics. Maybe he _did_ strike some sort of fear in her. That thought upsets him.

“Well, have I?” It’s not quite a demand, but an urging for her to speak, to maybe even look up at him. He wonders how he’d grown so tall that her head could barely reach his chin. As children he’d felt emasculated by her spindly legs towering over him; now he turns his gaze downward towards her to talk.

“No, you haven’t, my lord,” and it’s not his official title anymore, hasn’t been for a long time, but it’s a force of habit, a little comfort for him. His hand ruffles the top of her head—her gaze shoots up but his hand is gone before she can say anything.

“You and Shou were busy this morning,” he states after a brief silence.

“There was someone of suspicion within Qing walls.”

His head lifts in surprise. “Who?”

“A servant.” Ling sits in his chair again, beckoning his bodyguard forward. Her hood bunched around her shoulders is the slightest bit mussed, exposing the bit of caved-in flesh that is her collarbone. There’s no telling when _that_ became distracting, but he knows it’s been there for some time. It takes everything in him not to look.

“I presume you left it at that.”

She swallows thickly, turning her head away. Her silence speaks volumes.

“...Did you follow them?”

“Yes. Through the market and to a nearby mask stand.” Some part of her left arm begins to awaken with pain.

“Why?” He rises from his chair again, hair swishing about his shoulders in its ponytail.

“I felt it necessary.” Something scrapes at the inside of her chest.

“You could have been hurt or even _worse._ You shouldn’t have made that decision yourself. You shouldn’t have made your face known to them and you shouldn’t have gotten so close to someone who could be an enemy,” he admonishes, folding his arms and glaring at the wall. His disapproval stings deeply. She steps backwards, away from him, arms lax at her side. Still he comes closer, still he refuses to accept her reasoning.

“We were fine,” she croaks out, rubbing her left arm.

“That doesn’t matter. You’re more important than some spy mission. You’re far too valuable to me.”

“I…” she starts, but does not finish. She would rather not cross that unnecessary line. Grandfather must be rolling in his grave for even this much talking back.

“No more on this. Don’t put yourself in danger, Lan Fan. That’s an order.” His hands reach forward and she backs into the wall suddenly. The sound of her back hitting the wall startles the both of them.

Dark, beady eyes look up into his, Lan Fan’s open mouth lost for words and trying to find them quickly. Ling stares at her curiously and feels the rush of her _qi_ upon his senses like a rush of warm wind. He can’t remember the last time they were this close outside of sparring and his heart practically _leaps_ in his chest, jumping and screaming and his knees feel weak, too. Neither of them can find words; then one of his hands descends to the place where her shoulder meets her neck and she wants to whisper something to him, _anything_ because this is—

“I’m not the only one who needs to be protected.” Ling says, just above a whisper. He says it with meaning. He’s like Greed, Lan Fan thinks, trying to protect everyone so stubbornly.

When his free hand brushes against and then grips Lan Fan’s automail wrist she cannot wrench herself away. Her thoughts are swimming and clouded; his gray-blue eyes consider her almost like prey and praise her silently all the same. The heart in her chest is furious, unrelenting, and wanting with frenzy she has never known before.

Without a word, his hand travels up her neck, thumb rubbing the slightest bit over her pulse—and she cannot say why or how, but something in her is calmed and soothed and yet blooming to life in her chest. She cannot protest, cannot breathe right and tries so hard to do so with shaking lips.

“Lan Fan.” Her name has such gravity in his mouth, heavy, rough, and quiet. It’s passed through his mouth too many times to count and somehow feels entirely new.

Ling stares right into her, his eyes warm and entirely too soft, and Lan Fan knows in that moment that he has been trying to suppress and overcome some feeling that has been unforgiving to him for so long. The hand gripping her automail presses her wrist against the wall.

His tongue smooths over his lips, and then his eyes—dark with something that can only be a product of having the incarnation of _greed_ inside his body for months—looks down at her mouth, something inside him coming to life, too.

Ling pauses before her, his chest screaming as he halts his movements, so loud and so unabating he thinks it might drive him mad. He can only reign back the avarice for so long until it burns, but Lan Fan is so beautiful with her wet eyes and her scarred shoulders and her mouth biting back what she will not say that he doesn’t know if he _can_ hold it back.

He comes closer, his hand cupping her cheek and her eyes fluttering; then just before he can press his mouth to hers there’s a knock at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you liked this work (or any of my other works), please consider commissioning me or even just donating to my paypal, any amount helps with my daily living expenses! that's all for now~ p.s. i'm so sorry for being evil with my cliffhanger... but also not ;)


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